Miss Howard entered the room. Her eyes were red with weeping. She brought Miss Flint’s request that we would take our tea in her apartment. In the humour I was in, I would as soon have paid a visit to a felon in Newgate! I sent my negative, and left the room abruptly. You will perceive that your Rachel Cowley had lost sight of wisdom. Tell me not, Lucy, that I am an enthusiast: I will maintain, to my dying day, that there is language which hypocrisy can never speak. Lady Maclairn is a _Flamall_! not one line in her face corresponded with a feeling of mine. I told my tale to Mrs. Allen.—What a contrast! The glow of indignation, the look of pity, with which she listened to my story, made me thankful that a slight cold had kept her in her room at the dining hour. I had scarcely recovered my _sang froid_ before Lady Maclairn, with a countenance as placid and gentle as the pleased infant’s, entered to _chat_, and enquire about the rebel tooth which had teazed Mrs. Allen; and, with a calm and easy good humour, she asked my permission for Sir Murdock’s visit. “I am going,” added she, smiling, “to bring Miss Flint into good humour; and if I should be so fortunate as to succeed, Mary shall have a holiday and walk with you.” I could only bow: but in spite of nature this woman subdued me; for she checked a sigh that I could not resist, and left me, to send in my guest. Sir Murdock finding I was “at home,” joined me; and, to smooth my own ruffled features, and gratify him, I went to the harp. I have however, prescribed for myself as well as my patient; the _penseroso_ in music having more than once betrayed him into tears and myself into sadness, by sounds which came ——“o’er his ear like the sweet south That breathes upon a bank of violets.” Two or three songs of Horace’s are now locked up; and the baronet is contented with being roused to cheerfulness by Scotch ballads. Let me know in your next letter how many months Rachel Cowley has been at Tarefield. Mrs. Allen’s calendar says not more than one—can this be true? Poor Horace! how tedious must be to him the account of time if he computes it as I do! How many precious hours which Providence has given us, have been, and will be still lost to the account of happiness!—A happiness, Lucy, which would not have interfered with a single duty, nor invaded on the rights of a single human being!—Good night!