SIR,—­Your last letter came like a pardon to one upon the block.  I had given over the hopes on’t, having received my letters by the other carrier, who was always [wont] to be last.  The loss put me hugely out of order, and you would have both pitied and laughed at me if you could have seen how woodenly I entertained the widow, who came hither the day before, and surprised me very much.  Not being able to say anything, I got her to cards, and there with a great deal of patience lost my money to her;—­or rather I gave it as my ransom.  In the midst of our play, in comes my blessed boy with your letter, and, in earnest, I was not able to disguise the joy it gave me, though one was by that is not much your friend, and took notice of a blush that for my life I could not keep back.  I put up the letter in my pocket, and made what haste I could to lose the money I had left, that I might take occasion to go fetch some more; but I did not make such haste back again, I can assure you.  I took time enough to have coined myself some money if I had had the art on’t, and left my brother enough to make all his addresses to her if he were so disposed.  I know not whether he was pleased or not, but I am sure I was.

You make so reasonable demands that ’tis not fit you should be denied.  You ask my thoughts but at one hour; you will think me bountiful, I hope, when I shall tell you that I know no hour when you have them not.  No, in earnest, my very dreams are yours, and I have got such a habit of thinking of you that any other thought intrudes and proves uneasy to me.  I drink your health every morning in a drench that would poison a horse I believe, and ’tis the only way I have to persuade myself to take it.  ’Tis the infusion of steel, and makes me so horridly sick, that every day at ten o’clock I am making my will and taking leave of all my friends.  You will believe you are not forgot then.  They tell me I must take this ugly drink a fortnight, and then begin another as bad; but unless you say so too, I do not think I shall.  ’Tis worse than dying by the half.

I am glad your father is so kind to you.  I shall not dispute it with him, because it is much more in his power than in mine, but I shall never yield that ’tis more in his desire, since he was much pleased with that which was a truth when you told it him, but would have been none if he had asked the question sooner.  He thought there was no danger of you since you were more ignorant and less concerned in my being in town than he.  If I were Mrs. Chambers, he would be more my friend; but, however, I am much his servant as he is your father.  I have sent you your book.  And since you are at leisure to consider the moon, you may be enough to read Cleopatre, therefore I have sent you three tomes; when you have done with these you shall have the rest, and I believe they will please.  There is a story of Artemise that I will recommend to you; her disposition I like extremely, it has a great deal of practical wit; and