exclaims against the weather, and the roads, and the four winds of heaven, so I am in a fix, and, what is worse, so are you.  On reading over, for the second or third time, your last letter (which, by the by, was written in such hieroglyphics that, at the first hasty perusal, I could hardly make out two consecutive words), I find you intimate that if I leave this journey till Thursday I shall be too late.  I grieve that I should have so inconvenienced you; but I need not talk of either Friday or Saturday now, for I rather imagine there is small chance of my ever going at all.  The elders of the house have never cordially acquiesced in the measure; and now that impediments seem to start up at every step, opposition grows more open.  Papa, indeed, would willingly indulge me, but this very kindness of his makes me doubt whether I ought to draw upon it; so, though I could battle out aunt’s discontent, I yield to papa’s indulgence.  He does not say so, but I know he would rather I stayed at home; and aunt meant well too, I dare say, but I am provoked that she reserved the expression of her decided disapproval till all was settled between you and myself.  Reckon on me no more; leave me out in your calculations:  perhaps I ought, in the beginning, to have had prudence sufficient to shut my eyes against such a prospect of pleasure, so as to deny myself the hope of it.  Be as angry as you please with me for disappointing you.  I did not intend it, and have only one thing more to say—­if you do not go immediately to the sea, will you come to see us at Haworth?  This invitation is not mine only, but papa’s and aunt’s.”

However, a little more patience, a little more delay, and she enjoyed the pleasure she had wished for so much.  She and her friend went to Easton for a fortnight in the latter part of September.  It was here she received her first impressions of the sea.

   “Oct. 24th.

“Have you forgotten the sea by this time, E.?  Is it grown dim in your mind?  Or can you still see it, dark, blue, and green, and foam-white, and hear it roaring roughly when the wind is high, or rushing softly when it is calm? . . .  I am as well as need be, and very fat.  I think of Easton very often, and of worthy Mr. H., and his kind-hearted helpmate, and of our pleasant walks to H—–­ Wood, and to Boynton, our merry evenings, our romps with little Hancheon, &c., &c.  If we both live, this period of our lives will long be a theme for pleasant recollection.  Did you chance, in your letter to Mr. H., to mention my spectacles?  I am sadly inconvenienced by the want of them.  I can neither read, write, nor draw with comfort in their absence.  I hope Madame won’t refuse to give them up . . .  Excuse the brevity of this letter, for I have been drawing all day, and my eyes are so tired it is quite a labour to write.”

But, as the vivid remembrance of this pleasure died away, an accident occurred to make the actual duties of life press somewhat heavily for a time.