my Lord Broghill says) was of great concern to him, and begged I would read it, and give him my answer.  I took it up presently, as if I had meant it, but threw it, sealed as it was, into the fire, and told him (as softly as he had spoke to me) I thought that the quickest and best way of answering it.  He sat awhile in great disorder, without speaking a word, and so ris and took his leave.  Now what think you, shall I ever hear of him more?

You do not thank me for using your rival so scurvily nor are not jealous of him, though your father thinks my intentions were not handsome towards you, which methinks is another argument that one is not to be one’s own judge; for I am very confident they were, and with his favour shall never believe otherwise.  I am sure I have no ends to serve of my own in what I did,—­it could be no advantage to me that had firmly resolved not to marry; but I thought it might be an injury to you to keep you in expectation of what was never likely to be, as I apprehended.  Why do I enter into this wrangling discourse?  Let your father think me what he pleases, if he ever comes to know me, the rest of my actions shall justify me in this; if he does not, I’ll begin to practise on him (what you so often preached to me) to neglect the report of the world, and satisfy myself in my own innocency.

’Twill be pleasinger to you, I am sure, to tell you how fond I am of your lock.  Well, in earnest now, and setting aside all compliments, I never saw finer hair, nor of a better colour; but cut no more on’t, I would not have it spoiled for the world.  If you love me, be careful on’t.  I am combing, and curling, and kissing this lock all day, and dreaming on’t all night.  The ring, too, is very well, only a little of the biggest.  Send me a tortoise one that is a little less than that I sent for a pattern.  I would not have the rule so absolutely true without exception that hard hairs be ill-natured, for then I should be so.  But I can allow that all soft hairs are good, and so are you, or I am deceived as much as you are if you think I do not love you enough.  Tell me, my dearest, am I?  You will not be if you think I am

Yours.

Letter 52.—­It is interesting to find Dorothy reading the good Jeremy Taylor’s Holy Living, a book too little known in this day.  For amidst its old-fashioned piety there are many sentiments of practical goodness, expressed with clear insistence, combined with a quaint grace of literary style which we have long ago cast aside in the pursuit of other things.  Dorothy loved this book, and knew it well.  Compare the following extract from the chapter on Christian Justice with what Dorothy has written in this letter.  Has she been recently reading this passage?  Perhaps she has; but more probably it is the recollection of what is well known that she is reproducing from a memory not unstored with such learning.  Thus writes Dr. Taylor:  “There is very great