One little incident alone proclaimed the slightest vacillation in his mind since he came here, and as it ended happily, and bore evidence to the delicacy of my dear Frederick’s feeling, I have pleasure in recording it. A letter from Arthur, in which he expressed a wish that his uncle had returned poor, in order to enjoy the luxury of being loved, with freedom from the base insinuations that restrain the manifestation of affection, and also speaking the pleasure which he experienced in the certainty that his cousin is more highly considered than himself, was received, and shewn to me some time ago, by my dear boy. Some allusion being made to news from Arthur, my brother asked one or two questions about him, which Frederick’s first unguarded movement led him to answer, by putting his friend’s letter into his uncle’s hands; but instantly recollecting the passage which I have mentioned, he altered his purpose, and blushed so violently while he made an awkward reply, that a brow for the first time overcast by clouds of suspicion, met my poor fellow’s eye, and occasioned an unspeakable agony in his mind, which he saw no means of relieving; for the same nice feeling that had stayed his first impulse, forbade him to explain the subsequent embarrassment; yet he saw that an unfavourable surmise, perhaps detracting from Arthur’s honorable motives, was the alternative. Mr. Otway was in the room when this incident occurred, and mentioned it to me in private. I immediately unravelled the mystery, produced the letter for this dear friend, who shewed it without Frederick’s knowledge, or mine, to his uncle; and the result has been the most perfect understanding on all sides, and the completest re-establishment of confidence on the part of my amiable guest. My brother speaks with joy of never parting from me, and as every consideration must give place to the hope of protracting his existence, I shall not oppose his wishes, though I augur a removal from my cell, which I never before contemplated, in fulfilling them. My poor invalid talks of the Continent for next spring, and has heard so much of Turin, that thither he has set his heart on going in quest of that which he will never find. What is so far distant, may never come to pass; but I must prepare for it, and _you_ know how painful to me is change of place; yet the bitterest potion is mercifully diluted for us, if we attempt to perform a _duty_ with cheerfulness; and He who “tempers the wind to the shorn lamb,” will sustain me through whatever trials may be in prospect.