DEAR A.,--Still hard at work. I wonder at mama's patience and endurance. To hear scales, cadenzas, and trills from morning till night must be terribly wearing on the nerves. I said as much to the master, and he consented to give me "Bel raggio," of "Semiramide." It is as good as an exercise, anyway, because it is nothing but cadenzas. Then he allowed me to sing "Una voce poco fa." I told him that mama had put on a pound of flesh since I was permitted to roam in these fresh pastures. This made him laugh. After he had seen that I had "brains enough" to sing these songs according to his august liking, he said, "Now we will try 'Voi che sapete,' of Mozart." Garcia has not the ghost of a voice; but he has the most enchanting way of singing mezzo-voce, and occasionally says, "Sing this so," and sings the phrase for me. It sounds delightfully when he does it; but I do not think he would have liked me to "sing it so" and would probably swear a gentle little Spanish swear under his garlicky breath, because (I say it, though I hate to) the dear master eats garlic--pounds of it, I fear--and his voice is highly scented when it cracks, which it often does. He once said, "You may imitate my way of singing, but don't imitate my crack." "Oh," I said, "I love to hear you sing. I don't even hear the crack." "Ah," he sighed, "if it had not been for that crack I should be in the opera now." "I am glad," I answered, "that you are not there; for then you would not be here, teaching me." I think this pleased him. Sometimes he is very nervous. Once, when I was singing "Voi che sapete," the tears rolled down his cheeks, and another time, when he was showing me how to sing it "so," I burst into tears, and the poor man had to order his servant to bring me some sherry to restore my nerves. There is one phrase in this song which I never can hear sung, or never can sing myself, without emotion. The season is getting so late mama thinks we ought to leave London, especially as Garcia is taking his vacation, and we are going in a few days to Paris. Garcia has given us a letter to his sister, Madame Viardot (of whom he said she had brains but no voice). He wrote: "I send you my pupil. Do all you can to persuade her to go on the stage. She has it in her." But Madame Viardot may "do all she can"; I will never go on the stage. If "it" is in me, it must work out some other way. PARIS, _May, 1861._ DEAR A.,--Mother will have written to you of my engagement to Charles Moulton. I wish you would come and see me married, and that I could present all my future family to the most lovable of aunts.