You did not tell me what carried you out of town in such haste.  I hope the occasion was good, you must account to me for all that I lost by it.  I shall expect a whole packet next week.  Oh, me!  I have forgot this once or twice to tell you, that if it be no inconvenience to you, I could wish you would change the place of direction for my letters.  Certainly that Jones knows my name, I bespoke a saddle of him once, and though it be a good while agone, yet I was so often with him about it,—­having much ado to make him understand how I would have it, it being of a fashion he had never seen, though, sure, it be common,—­that I am confident he has not forgot me.  Besides that, upon it he got my brother’s custom; and I cannot tell whether he does not use the shop still.  Jane presents her humble service to you, and has sent you something in a box; ’tis hard to imagine what she can find here to present you withal, and I am much in doubt whether you will not pay too dear for it if you discharge the carriage.  ’Tis a pretty freedom she takes, but you may thank yourself; she thinks because you call her fellow-servant, she may use you accordingly.  I bred her better, but you have spoiled her.

Is it true that my Lord Whitlocke goes Ambassador where my Lord Lisle should have gone?  I know not how he may appear in a Swedish Court, but he was never meant for a courtier at home, I believe.  Yet ’tis a gracious Prince; he is often in this country, and always does us the favour to send for his fruit hither.  He was making a purchase of one of the best houses in the county.  I know not whether he goes on with it; but ’tis such a one as will not become anything less than a lord.  And there is a talk as if the Chancery were going down; if so, his title goes with it, I think.  ’Twill be sad news for my Lord Keble’s son; he will have nothing left to say when “my Lord, my father,” is taken from him.  Were it not better that I had nothing to say neither, than that I should entertain you with such senseless things.  I hope I am half asleep, nothing else can excuse me; if I were quite asleep, I should say fine things to you; I often dream I do; but perhaps if I could remember them they are no wiser than my wakening discourses.  Good-night.

Letter 40.—­A letter has been lost; whether Harrold or Collins, the two carriers, were either or both of them guilty of carelessness in the delivery of these letters, it is quite impossible to say now.  Dorothy seems to think Harrold delivered the letter, and it was mislaid in London.  Perhaps it was this letter, and what was written about it, that caused all those latent feelings of despair and discontent to awaken in the breasts of the two lovers.  Was this the spark that loneliness and absence fanned into flame?  You shall judge for yourself, reader, in the next chapter.