all about the grand house, and the difference there was between us; and took her in my arms, making her sit down on the sofa by me—­just as I should do, if I was consoling our own Susan under some great trouble.  Well!  I soon made her look more like herself, comforting her in every way I could think of:  and she laid her poor head on my shoulder, and I took and kissed her, (not remembering a bit about its being a born lady and a stranger that I was kissing); and the tears came at last, and did her good.  As soon as she could speak, she thanked God her brother was found, and had fallen into kind hands.  She hadn’t courage to read the doctor’s letter herself, and asked me to do it.  Though he gave a very bad account of the young gentleman, he said that care and nursing, and getting him away from a strange place to his own home and among his friends, might do wonders for him yet.  When I came to this part of the letter, she started up, and asked me to give it to her.  Then she inquired when I was going back to Cornwall; and I said, “as soon as possible,” (for indeed, it’s time I was home, William).  “Wait; pray wait till I have shown this letter to my father!” says she.  And she ran out of the room with it in her hand.

After some time, she came back with her face all of a flush, like; looking quite different to what she did before, and saying that I had done more to make the family happy by coming with that letter, than she could ever thank me for as she ought.  A gentleman followed her in, who was her eldest brother (she said); the pleasantest, liveliest gentleman I ever saw.  He shook hands as if he had known me all his life; and told me I was the first person he had ever met with who had done good in a family by bringing them bad news.  Then he asked me whether I was ready to go to Cornwall the next morning with him, and the young lady, and a friend of his who was a doctor.  I had thought already of getting the parting over with poor Susan, that very day:  so I said, “Yes.”  After that, they wouldn’t let me go away till I had had something to eat and drink; and the dear, kind young lady asked me all about Susan, and where she was living, and about you and the children, just as if she had known us like neighbours.  Poor thing! she was so flurried, and so anxious for the next morning, that it was all the gentleman could do to keep her quiet, and prevent her falling into a sort of laughing and crying fit, which it seems she had been liable to lately.  At last they let me go away:  and I went and stayed with Susan as long as I could before I bid her good-bye.  She bore the parting bravely—­poor, dear child!  God in heaven bless her; and I’m sure he will; for a better daughter no mother ever had.