be once more in my stage-trappings, and in the glare of the theater instead of the blessed sunshine in the country, and to hear the murmur of congregated human beings instead of that sound of many waters, that wonderful sea-song, that is to me like the voice of a dear friend.  I made a great effort to conquer this feeling of repugnance to my work, and thought of my dear Mrs. Harry, whom I have seen, with a heart and mind torn with anxiety, leave poor Lizzy on what seemed almost a death-bed, to go and do her duty at the theater.  That was something like a trial.  There was a poor old lady, of more than seventy years of age, who acted as my nurse, who helped also to rouse me from my selfish morbidness—­age and infirmity laboring in the same path with rather more cause for weariness and disgust than I have.  She may have been working, too, only for herself, while I am the means of helping my own dear people, and many others; she toils on, unnoticed and neglected, while my exertions are stimulated and rewarded by success and the approval of every one about me.  And yet my task is sadly distasteful to me; it seems such useless work that but for its very useful pecuniary results I think I would rather make shoes.  You tell me of the comfort you derive, under moral depression, from picking stones and weeds out of your garden.  I am afraid that antidote would prove insufficient for me; the weeds would very soon lie in heaps in my lap, and the stones accumulate in little mountains all round me, while my mind was sinking into contemplations of the nature of slow quicksands.  Violent bodily exercise, riding, or climbing up steep and rugged pathways are my best remedies for the blue devils.

     My father has received a pressing invitation from Lord and Lady
     W——­ to go to their place, Heaton, which is but five miles from
     Manchester.

You say to me in your last letter that you could not live at the rate I do; but my life is very different now from what it was while with you.  I am silent and quiet and oppressed with irksome duties, and altogether a different creature from your late companion by the sea-shore.  It is true that that was my natural condition, but if you were here with me now, in the midst of all these unnatural sights and sounds, I do not think I should weary you with my overflowing life and spirits, as I fear I did at Ardgillan.  I was as happy there as the birds that fly in the clear sky above the sea, and much happier, for I had your companionship in addition to the delight which mere existence is in such scenes.  I am glad Lily made and wore the wreath of lilac blossoms; I was sure it would become her.  Give her my love and thanks for having done as I asked her.  Oh, do not wish Ardgillan fifteen miles from London!  Even for the sake of seeing you, I would not bring you near the smoke and dirt and comparative confinement of such a situation; I would not take you from your sea and sky and