her brother; not, however, to stay there, but to take a month’s tour and recreation.  I have had a long letter from Mary, and a packet containing a present of a very handsome black silk scarf, and a pair of beautiful kid gloves, bought at Brussels.  Of course, I was in one sense pleased with the gift—­pleased that they should think of me so far off, amidst the excitements of one of the most splendid capitals of Europe; and yet it felt irksome to accept it.  I should think Mary and Martha have not more than sufficient pocket-money to supply themselves.  I wish they had testified their regard by a less expensive token.  Mary’s letters spoke of some of the pictures and cathedrals she had seen—­pictures the most exquisite, cathedrals the most venerable.  I hardly know what swelled to my throat as I read her letter:  such a vehement impatience of restraint and steady work; such a strong wish for wings—­wings such as wealth can furnish; such an urgent thirst to see, to know, to learn; something internal seemed to expand bodily for a minute.  I was tantalised by the consciousness of faculties unexercised,—­then all collapsed, and I despaired.  My dear, I would hardly make that confession to any one but yourself; and to you, rather in a letter than viva voce.  These rebellious and absurd emotions were only momentary; I quelled them in five minutes.  I hope they will not revive, for they were acutely painful.  No further steps have been taken about the project I mentioned to you, nor probably will be for the present; but Emily, and Anne, and I, keep it in view.  It is our polar star, and we look to it in all circumstances of despondency.  I begin to suspect I am writing in a strain which will make you think I am unhappy.  This is far from being the case; on the contrary, I know my place is a favourable one, for a governess.  What dismays and haunts me sometimes, is a conviction that I have no natural knack for my vocation.  If teaching only were requisite, it would be smooth and easy; but it is the living in other people’s houses—­the estrangement from one’s real character—­the adoption of a cold, rigid, apathetic exterior, that is painful . . .  You will not mention our school project at present.  A project not actually commenced is always uncertain.  Write to me often, my dear Nell; you know your letters are valued.  Your ‘loving child’ (as you choose to call me so),

   C. B.

“P.S.  I am well in health; don’t fancy I am not, but I have one aching feeling at my heart (I must allude to it, though I had resolved not to).  It is about Anne; she has so much to endure:  far, far more than I ever had.  When my thoughts turn to her, they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger.  I know what concealed susceptibility is in her nature, when her feelings are wounded.  I wish I could be with her, to administer a little balm.  She is more lonely—­less gifted with the power of making friends, even than I am.