Thank you, dear friend, for your kind interest in my book.  It has found far more favor than I expected, and I think, ever since the week after its publication, I have received a dozen of letters daily about it, from friends and strangers,—­mostly strangers,—­some of very high accomplishments, who will certainly be friends.  This is encouragement to write again, and we will have a talk about it when you come.  I should like your advice.  One thing is certain, that this work has succeeded, and that the people who like it best are precisely those whom one wishes to like it best, the lovers of literature.  Amongst other things, I have received countless volumes of poetry and prose,—­one little volume of poetry written under the name of Mary Maynard, of the greatest beauty, with the vividness and picturesqueness of the new school, combined with infinite correctness and clearness, that rarest of all merits nowadays.  Her real name I don’t know, she has only thought it right to tell me that Mary Maynard was not the true appellation (this is between ourselves).  Her own family know nothing of the publication, which seems to have been suggested by her and my friend, John Ruskin.  Of course, she must have her probation, but I know of no young writer so likely to rival your new American school.  I sent your gift-books of Hawthorne, yesterday, to the Walters of Bearwood, who had never heard of them!  Tell him that I have had the honor of poking him into the den of the Times, the only civilized place in England where they were barbarous enough not to be acquainted with “The Scarlet Letter.”  I wonder what they’ll think of it.  It will make them stare.  They come to see me, for it is full two months since I have been in the pony-chaise.  I was low, if you remember, when you were here, but thought myself getting better, was getting better.  About Christmas, very damp weather came on, or rather very wet weather, and the damp seized my knee and ankles and brought back such an attack of rheumatism that I cannot stand upright, walk quite double, and am often obliged to be lifted from step to step up stairs.  My medical adviser (a very clever man) says that I shall get much better when warm weather comes, but for weeks and weeks we have had east-winds and frost.  No violets, no primroses, no token of spring.  A little flock of ewes and lambs, with a pretty boy commonly holding a lamb in his arms, who drives his flock to water at the pond opposite my window, is the only thing that gives token of the season.  I am quite mortified at this on your account, for April, in general a month of great beauty here, will be as desolate as winter.  Nevertheless you must come and see me, you and Mr. and Mrs. Bennoch, and perhaps you can continue to stay a day or two, or to come more than once.  I want to see as much of you as I can, and I must change much, if I be in any condition to go to London,