LETTER LXXIII. _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._ _January 29._ Although in the calculation of months and weeks, I have contrived to beguile the lagging hours which are still between me and my promised bliss, I have not yet been able to find an expedient for the day, without scribbling to you. It seems to be the aliment necessary for my existence; and notwithstanding I could match an hungry school boy, in my appetite for my pudding, I could sooner console myself for the absence of my dinner, than of the use of my right hand, as the agent of my fondest, sweetest employment. I have written a volume to Horace; and he will know as much of the occurrences at Farefield, as will content him. He will know that I am in health and in hope. Say not a word of my having been so ill. The old bard says, “men are deceivers ever.” A woman therefore, may _for once deceive_, when in that deceit, she spares to a beloved object the useless anxiety arising from past danger and past pains. Yesterday our “busy-heads” went to Wenland place, in order to give their opinion of certain alterations and improvements projected by the new tenant Malcolm. I was ordered to stay at home by my despotical doctor, and Lady Maclairn promised to take _good_ care of me. They departed after breakfast, meaning to dine at Mr. Wilson’s, and left us to a danger, as bad as cold rooms. I soon found it impossible to evade the topic I so much dreaded for her; she at once led to the subject by saying, that she had still secrets to communicate to her only comforter, but that she feared my sensibility. I desired her to proceed. “Some time before my sister’s death,” continued she, “I received this sealed parcel from her hands. It is, as you see, addressed to myself. I hesitated when she offered it to my acceptance. She observed my reluctance.” “Make yourself perfectly easy,” said Miss Flint, “it contains nothing but papers essentially necessary for your future security. I cannot die, without telling you that they are _necessary_. You do not know your brother, Harriet, so well as I do; and I must tell you, what steps I have taken to secure you from his future tyranical power. I shall die, however, without bitterness of spirit. I once loved Flamall; I do not accuse him here; nor will I accuse him _hereafter_; for my own envy, my own implacable spirit, my own stubborn and hard heart prepared the way for the influence of his inordinate purposes, and more deliberate mischiefs. As a father, he has been equally base and cruel. Philip has informed me of the measures he pursued, in order to gratify his ambition in regard to his son’s marriage with Miss Cowley. Let it suffice, that they were such as did not surprise me. I immediately wrote to Mr. Flamall. You will find a copy of my letter amongst those papers. He knows, that I have, by a full and ample