P.S.—­An old pack of cards (!) would be very exceptible.

This other is a month earlier:—­

“MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA—­I was truly happy to hear that you were all well.  We are surrounded with measles at present on every side, for the Herons got it, and Isabella Heron was near Death’s Door, and one night her father lifted her out of bed, and she fell down as they thought lifeless.  Mr. Heron said, ‘That lassie’s deed noo’—­’I’m no deed yet.’  She then threw up a big worm nine inches and a half long.  I have begun dancing, but am not very fond of it, for the boys strikes and mocks me.—­I have been another night at the dancing; I like it better.  I will write to you as often as I can; but I am afraid not every week. I long for you with the longings of a child to embrace you—­to fold you in my arms.  I respect you with all the respect due to a mother.  You don’t know how I love you.  So I shall remain, your loving child,

     M. FLEMING.”

What rich involution of love in the words marked!  Here are some lines to her beloved Isabella, in July, 1811:—­

“There is a thing that I do want—­ With you these beauteous walks to haunt; We would be happy if you would Try to come over if you could.  Then I would all quite happy be Now and for all eternity.  My mother is so very sweet, And checks my appetite to eat; My father shows us what to do; But O I’m sure that I want you.  I have no more of poetry; O Isa do remember me, And try to love your Marjory.”

In a letter from “Isa” to

     “Miss Muff Maidie Marjory Fleming,
     favored by Rare Rear-Admiral Fleming,”

she says:—­“I long much to see you, and talk over all our old stories together, and to hear you read and repeat.  I am pining for my old friend Cesario, and poor Lear, and wicked Richard.  How is the dear Multiplication table going on? are you still as much attached to 9 times 9 as you used to be?”

But this dainty, bright thing is about to flee,—­to come “quick to confusion.”  The measles she writes of seized her, and she died on the 19th of December, 1811.  The day before her death, Sunday, she sat up in bed, worn and thin, her eye gleaming as with the light of a coming world, and with a tremulous, old voice repeated the lines by Burns,—­heavy with the shadow of death, and lit with the fantasy of the judgment-seat,—­the publican’s prayer in paraphrase:—­

     Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene

It is more affecting than we care to say to read her mother’s and Isabella Keith’s letters, written immediately after her death.  Old and withered, tattered and pale, they are now:  but when you read them, how quick, how throbbing with life and love! how rich in that language of affection which only women and Shakespeare and Luther can use,—­that power of detaining the soul over the beloved object and its loss....