Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline—­perhaps myself, who knows?—­are in a great state of excitement to-day because a niece of theirs is coming here on a visit.  I heard of her existence for the first time last week, and immediately decided to invite her to Fletcher’s Hall.  For, Constance, let me whisper it, the old ladies—­bless their hearts!—­are killing me.  This person, Ida Seymour by name, is a spinster of some forty winters, a kind of roving, charitable star, from what I gather, who spends her life visiting from place to place with a trunkful of fancy work, pious books, and innocent sources of amusement,—­a fairy godmother to old ladies, pauper children, and bazaars.  My vanity has run its course, and I shall gladly yield the place of honour to this worthy soul.  May she stay long!

That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it is more than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are sweet, which is saying a good deal.  If I don’t get a letter to-morrow, I shall be on the brink of despair.  At the approach of post time, I am nearly ill with anticipation, and afterwards fall headlong into deepest melancholy.

Your ill-used
Emilia.

LETTER XII.

Graysmill, October 10th.

Sweet, your letter of Thursday comforted me wondrous much; but I have something to tell you, and my impatience will not even let me dwell on the joy it was to read words of yours again.  Well; yesterday was a dull day, the sky was covered all the morning, and at dinner-time it began to rain.  I sat in my room in the afternoon and read “Richard Feverel” until, looking up from my book, I saw that the rain had ceased.  The wind had risen, and, in the west, a hole had been poked through the grey mantle, showing the gilded edge of a snowy cloud against a patch of blue.  Out I ran, across the garden and the little park that touches the heath, then through my dear beechwood until I reached a certain clearing where the ground goes sheer down at one’s feet and where one may behold, over the tree-tops, stretches of wood and meadow in the plain below.  I sprang on to a knoll, and there stood breathless, watching the rout of the tumbled clouds.

Something started beside me,—­I started also, for these woods are always very lonely,—­and, to my surprise, I saw a young man.  Imagine a very tall slight fellow, carelessly dressed, at one and the same time graceful and ungainly,—­I have come to the conclusion that he is physically graceful, but that a certain shyness and nervousness of temperament produce at times self-consciousness and awkwardness of bearing.  It is difficult to describe his face; I don’t know whether he is merely interesting or actually beautiful; here again there is some discrepancy between flesh and spirit, for the features are not regular, but the expression exquisite.  I suppose he might be considered plain; his nose is large, rather thin, and not straight;