’Chawton, July 9, 1816.

’MY DEAR E.—­Many thanks.  A thank for every line, and as many to Mr. W. Digweed for coming.  We have been wanting very much to hear of your mother, and are happy to find she continues to mend, but her illness must have been a very serious one indeed.  When she is really recovered, she ought to try change of air, and come over to us.  Tell your father that I am very much obliged to him for his share of your letter, and most sincerely join in the hope of her being eventually much the better for her present discipline.  She has the comfort moreover of being confined in such weather as gives one little temptation to be out.  It is really too bad, and has been too bad for a long time, much worse than any one can bear, and I begin to think it will never be fine again.  This is a finesse of mine, for I have often observed that if one writes about the weather, it is generally completely changed before the letter is read.  I wish it may prove so now, and that when Mr. W. Digweed reaches Steventon to-morrow, he may find you have had a long series of hot dry weather.  We are a small party at present, only grandmamma, Mary Jane, and myself.  Yalden’s coach cleared off the rest yesterday.  I am glad you recollected to mention your being come home. {161a} My heart began to sink within me when I had got so far through your letter without its being mentioned.  I was dreadfully afraid that you might be detained at Winchester by severe illness, confined to your bed perhaps, and quite unable to hold a pen, and only dating from Steventon in order, with a mistaken sort of tenderness, to deceive me.  But now I have no doubt of your being at home.  I am sure you would not say it so seriously unless it actually were so.  We saw a countless number of post-chaises full of boys pass by yesterday morning {161b}—­full of future heroes, legislators, fools, and villains.  You have never thanked me for my last letter, which went by the cheese.  I cannot bear not to be thanked.  You will not pay us a visit yet of course; we must not think of it.  Your mother must get well first, and you must go to Oxford and not be elected; after that a little change of scene may be good for you, and your physicians I hope will order you to the sea, or to a house by the side of a very considerable pond. {161c} Oh! it rains again.  It beats against the window.  Mary Jane and I have been wet through once already to-day; we set off in the donkey-carriage for Farringdon, as I wanted to see the improvement Mr. Woolls is making, but we were obliged to turn back before we got there, but not soon enough to avoid a pelter all the way home.  We met Mr. Woolls.  I talked of its being bad weather for the hay, and he returned me the comfort of its being much worse for the wheat.  We hear that Mrs. S. does not quit Tangier:  why and wherefore?  Do you know that our Browning is gone?  You must prepare for a William when