LETTER IV. _From the same to the same._ Your dear letter, in which I find you _can be reasonable_ and good, was delivered to me yesterday, by a gentleman who lives in this neighbourhood; the Mr. Woodley, our Counsellor’s correspondent. He is, I find, land-steward to the Duke ——, and resides at Bishop’s-Auckland, the nearest market town from hence. He was frank and cordial in his offers of service, and we soon settled our terms of amity. He will be our postmaster, and from this time you may swell your budget at your pleasure, and send it to Counsellor Steadman’s. Our servants will carry mine to Mr. Woodley’s, for we have daily intercourse with the market. But now for your reward. It shall be ample, for I wish to encourage young beginners; and being positively convinced myself, that you may, without breaking any one commandment in the decalogue, fill a page with intelligence relative to my _brother_ Horace, I do hope to convert you, and strengthen your faith in my tenets. A mistaken and punctilious observance of an injunction, which your father’s _fears_, rather than his _reason_, have given you, would be downright sinning against friendship; so “look to your ways and be wise.” It was evident, that some ceremony had been judged necessary for the reception of the heiress; and I was received with much form and some parade in the _best parlour_. But as nature had not been consulted in these arrangements, she chose to spoil them; for poor lady Maclairn, instead of remembering her compliments, rushed into her husband’s arms and wept. It was no longer _Malvolio_, Lucy! No; it was the toil-worn _Ulysses_ soothing his faithful Penelope. The picture was complete; for an old spaniel was licking his feet at the moment. I cannot take a more favourable time for giving you a sketch of Lady Maclairn’s person; for whilst her beautiful black eyes were still humid with tears of joy, and her delicate face suffused with the mixed emotions of contentment and a recollection of her neglect of the strangers, I forgot she was Flamall’s sister. I should judge Lady Maclairn to be nearly fifty years old; she is of the middle size and elegantly formed. Her beauty is of that sort which I have heard called _pure English_; namely, hair approaching to black, black eyes, and a complexion of the finest texture and colour. Her features are small and regular. She is extremely pale, but not with the hue of sickness; and it behoves Lady Maclairn to think aright, for every feeling of her mind is accompanied by a soft blush on her face. This, with a certain timidity and peculiar gentleness of manners, renders her appearance more feminine and youthful than matronly; yet she is graceful, and speaks with propriety and judgment. So far my conscience acquits me of malice.