I have taken up my pen again. It is only five o’clock, and not a soul stirring in the house but myself. So I will try and disburthen my mind a little!—I do not now remember whether I told you, that some few weeks since, Mrs. Tomkins, after passing a day or two with my dear child, during her mother’s absence from home, took Lydia to town with her, her dear sister thinking, as she told me, that the poor girl was losing her spirits. I, knowing that she thought of every one’s comforts, consented to my good friend’s wish of showing Lydia some kindness. The very evening they left us, Caroline turned her discourse on Nora, praising the letters she had written to us, and, with her perfect charity, hoping all things. “I do not repent, my good child,” said I, “of the kindness I have shown her: I am not the poorer nor the worse man, if I have purchased with seven thousand pounds, the gratitude of one, on whom she depends for the comfort of her life. Would to God, that I could purchase health for you!” She smiled, and said, “Then indeed would you be in danger of a bankruptcy; for I believe my father would give his last shilling for his children’s benefit. But let this pass. My health is not _at present_ what troubles me. Promise me, my dear father, that, should Lydia stand in need of your support, you will remember, “That, where much is given, much may _justly_ be required;” but that where _nothing_ has been _sown_, we cannot reasonably except an harvest to rise.” “Make your mind easy in regard to her,” replied I, “thinking she had in her thoughts the little favour Lydia stands in with her mother, I pity and love her.” “I understand what you mean; and I promise you, I will be her father and her mother too, when occasion serves. She shall not be brow-beaten and neglected as she has been of late.” “Alas! my dear father,” answered Caroline, “you must promise _more_, or I cannot die in peace. You must promise to forgive another offending child: you must promise”—She threw her arms around me, Sir Murdoch, and weeping, added, “to shelter her from reproach and shame.” I turned faint and giddy; and my daughter gave me her salts. Oh! if you could but have heard what she said, you would not wonder at what I have done. In a word, my child was satisfied; and she lives to tell me again, that she was going to a Heavenly Father, from _one_ who imitated him in lenity to his offending offspring. There was, in her look, something which poured joy and comfort into my broken heart. I only wish I could go to heaven with her.