‘It is a very long time since you wrote to me,—longer than usual. As for your ever coming to see me, I have long ago given up that expectation as a wild delusion. Are you “busy”? Country gentlemen usually are, from what I hear; and from what I’ve seen I should say they work very hard to make believe they have more to do than they know how to manage. ‘I wonder if you have realised that I was twenty-two on my last birthday? I don’t suppose you have ever given a thought to the subject. At least, I missed your usual kind remembrance of me, on the occasion.’ [‘What the dickens does she mean? I’ve never been in the habit of sending her birthday presents!’] ‘Well, it is of no use wasting words over things. I wish to explain my situation and intentions to you. Since Aunt Emily’s death, six months ago, Uncle Robert has been quite broken up, and he doesn’t seem to get any better. It is a fearful loss to him. No one knew—of the world at large, I mean—how much they were bound up in each other, and how fearfully he misses her. After trying everything in the way of staying at home and keeping quiet, the doctors have advised a long voyage and a complete change. It has been decided to close Brinswell for a year at least, and he and Paul will set out on their travels in a week or two. I think they will visit Australia first, as they seem to think the long voyage will do him good, and they talk about India and America before they return—medicine for a troubled mind. Poor Uncle Robert! He agrees to all, and says he knows he is morbid. It seems to be thought very morbid nowadays if you have a grief that’s past the healing for six months, even though it be your dearest in the whole world that has gone from you. ‘I am not going with Uncle Robert and Paul. If it had been a shorter journey, I might have done so. I should have liked immensely to go to America, for instance. But this is different. Paul, of course, goes with him, because it would be outrageous to think of his going alone; but the doctor, and Paul too, say he should not be surrounded by too many of his own family, as the object is entire change. They both think it better for me not to go; and I shall do as they think fit. It is very sad every way. ‘Very sad, it is—so sad that I feel myself a little heartless, because I can’t help being rather glad that I shall leave here, and at last make acquaintance with my own home and my own brother. You do not know how often I have wished to do so. I am glad I shall see my birthplace and my north-country home; very glad I shall see you. And will not you say you will be glad to see me, dear Otho? It is years since I have seen you, and it seems unnatural that it should be so. Will you come down and fetch me, or are you too busy? I propose to leave here a week from to-day. Let me know about it.