“August 3d, 10 A. M.

“Dearest Colin,—­I have just lighted on poor little Rosie’s before-breakfast composition, and I can’t refrain from sending you her first impressions, poor child, though no doubt they will alter, as she sees more of her father.  All are gone to Avoncester now, though with some doubts whether this be indeed the critical day; I hope it may be, the sooner this is over the better, but I am full of hope.  I cannot believe but that the Providence that has done so much to discover Edward’s innocence to the world, will finish the work!  I have little expectation though of your coming down in time to see it, the copy of the telegraphic message, which you sent by Harry, looks as bad as possible, and even allowing something for inexperience and fright, things must be in a state in which you could hardly leave your brother, so unwell as he seems.

“2 p.m.  I was interrupted by Lady Temple, who was soon followed by Mrs. Curtis, burning to know whether I had any more intelligence than had floated to them.  Pray, if you can say anything to exonerate poor Rachel from mismanagement, say it strongly; her best friends are so engaged in wishing themselves there, and pitying poor Bessie for being in her charge, that I long to confute them, for I fully believe in her sense and spirit in any real emergency that she had not ridden out to encounter.

“And I have written so far without a word on the great subject of all, the joy untold for which our hearts had ached so long, and which we owe entirely to you, for Edward owns that nothing but your personal representations would have brought him, and, as I suppose you already know—­he so much hated the whole subject of Maddox’s treachery that he had flung aside, unread, all that he saw related to it.  Dear Colin, whatever else you have done, you have filled a famished heart.  Could you but have seen Ailie’s face all last evening as she sat by his side, you would have felt your reward—­it was as if the worn, anxious, almost stern mask had been taken away, and our Ailie’s face was beaming out as of old when she was the family pet, before Julia took her away to be finished.  She sees no change; she is in an ecstasy of glamour that makes her constantly repeat her rejoicings that Edward is so much himself, so unchanged, till I almost feel unsisterly for seeing in him the traces that these sad years have left, and that poor little Rose herself has detected.  No, he is not so much changed as exaggerated.  The living to himself, and with so cruel a past, has greatly increased the old dreaminess that we always tried to combat, and he seems less able than before to turn his mind into any channel but the one immediately before him.  He is most loving when roused, but infinitely more inclined to fall off into a muse.  I am afraid you must have had a troublesome charge in him, judging by the uproar Harry makes about the difficulty of getting him safe from Paddington.  It is good to see him and Harry