Adieu, dear Falkland. Am I not the very pine-apple, and quintessence of letter-writers? Huzza! Yours, ever affectionately, ARTHUR HOWARD. LETTER VIII. MISS DOUGLAS TO MISS SANDFORD. My dearest Julia, _Glenalta_. Unfortunately for me, I promised to write again without entering into any covenant with you; and were I prevented from performing my vow for half a year to come, I suppose that you would be a little female Shylock and insist upon your bond, before you put pen to paper. I do not know whether I shall do more wisely in refraining from all apology for my silence, or in attempting to account for it. If you have been able to settle into a regular track of daily employment since your return to Checkley, you will be able to comprehend how the day should often find us defaulters at its close, in at least half the amount of what we had to do at its commencement; but if the _whirl_ of travelling be still in operation, you may wonder how people, who are stationary, should not have too much time, rather than too little, on hand. I will therefore keep on the safe side, and make no excuse, lest it should not be considered a valid one, till I know how far you can understand our habits of life; but as I am very certain of your heart, I will proceed to tell you, as I promised in my last letter, of the surprise which Frederick and I have prepared lately for our dearest mother. On Wednesday next Arthur is to take a long ride with Mr. George Bentley, and Frederick, and I mean to take advantage of our cousin's absence to introduce mamma to the _retreat_, for so we have named the spot which is consecrated by our rural labours to this idol of our daily worship. Surely such worship cannot be idolatry, for through the finest mortal, as the most beautiful natural, object, we may pay homage to the God that created it. But _do_ we really offer this tribute, or does not too much love--does not too large a share of adoration rest in the channel without reaching the source, like the worship of our poor Roman Catholic, which is certainly given to the pictures and images, that adorn their altars rather than to the Divinity which they represent? This is a question which my conscience so often asks itself, that I believe the true answer would come against me; and yet with the half convicted sense of being a sinner, the sin of loving my mother beyond due bounds, borrows so much of her character from its object, that it _appears_ like virtue, and so deludes. Fred. and I talked the matter over yesterday evening, as we stole away to our hallowed bower.