God preserve you, Sir Murdoch, from knowing the sorrow which fills the heart of JEREMIAH SERGE. LETTER LXIII. _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._ _Friday morning._ My letter[1] of Monday last contained the intelligence of the good baronet’s safety, and the comfortable hopes that are entertained at Putney, that Mr. Serge will not need executors to his will, for some time at least; for the sight of the travellers has been a cordial to him. This morning we had another letter; it was from Malcolm; all the business which occasioned the journey had been finished to poor Mr. Serge’s contentment; but he had exerted himself too much; and the gout had overtaken him. Malcolm adds, that the doctor regards this indisposition as favourable to his friend’s general health, and that he is chief nurse; Mrs. Fairly attends her mother with assiduity, though unwell herself; she is, he says, the shadow of the Leonora we know, and he thinks her in a consumption. Her husband, from time to time, attends her; but his reception is cold and ceremonious in Mr. Serge’s room, and he is not less restrained on his part with the guests. Sir Murdoch is in perfect health, and the counsellor shares, in his leisure hours, and contributes to his amusement. Footnote 1: This letter does not appear. Lady Maclairn summons me to perform my part of the task we have before us; she has finished her part of it, and I have to fill the second sheet of paper to Putney. You will soon find me with you again; but my good father must have this hour, and the satisfaction of knowing that his wife is easy and reasonable, as is your RACHEL COWLEY. CHAP. X. LETTER LXIV. _Sunday morning._ Will my Lucy need from me the obvious reflexions, which will result from the perusal of this letter? “No:” nor have I time to make them, though the impressions on my mind are such as will indelibly remain, as admonitions to warn me against too much security in this world’s air bubbles!