By the first thou’lt guess that I have told her that Miss Howe is very ill, and can’t write; that she may account the better for not having received the letter designed for her.

PAPER I (Torn in two pieces.)

MY DEAREST MISS HOWE,

O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you!  But yet I cannot tell you neither.  But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vile creature informs me you are?

But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this:  and yet, if it were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!—­But what have I to do to upbraid?—­You may well be tired of me!—­And if you are, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself:  and all my own relations were tired of me long before you were.

How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!—­But how I ramble!

I sat down to say a great deal—­my heart was full—­I did not know what to say first—­and thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poor head) I cannot tell what—­and thought, and grief and confusion, came crowding so thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first; all would be first; so I can write nothing at all.—­Only that, whatever they have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was-in any one thing did I say?  Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I ever will be,

Your true——­

Plague on it!  I can write no more of this eloquent nonsense myself; which rather shows a raised, than a quenched, imagination:  but Dorcas shall transcribe the others in separate papers, as written by the whimsical charmer:  and some time hence when all is over, and I can better bear to read them, I may ask thee for a sight of them.  Preserve them, therefore; for we often look back with pleasure even upon the heaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.

PAPER II (Scratch’d through, and thrown under the table.)

—­And can you, my dear, honoured Papa, resolve for ever to reprobate your poor child?—­But I am sure you would not, if you knew what she has suffered since her unhappy—­And will nobody plead for your poor suffering girl?—­No one good body?—­Why then, dearest Sir, let it be an act of your own innate goodness, which I have so much experienced, and so much abused.  I don’t presume to think you should receive me—­No, indeed!—­My name is—­I don’t know what my name is!—­I never dare to wish to come into your family again!—­But your heavy curse, my Papa—­Yes, I will call you Papa, and help yourself as you can—­for you are my own dear Papa, whether you will or not—­and though I am an unworthy child—­yet I am your child—­

PAPER III