Finding nothing important to my history during the course of several weeks’ correspondence, so punctually maintained by Miss Cowley, I have suppressed a few letters, to avoid the censure of prolixity. Amongst the causes assigned in her letters at this time for her dejection of mind, she mentions the absence of her friends from the Abbey, who, it appears, were on an excursion to Hartley-Pool, a bathing-place not very remote from them. She dwells, however, with much more inquietude on the condition of Miss Howard. She observes, that her uncle’s absence has still more lessened these observances of civility which Miss Flint had practised. Her indignation daily augments, by perceiving Lady Maclairn’s increasing reserve on the subject of Miss Howard’s unworthy treatment.—“To what purpose serve her downcast eyes and varying colour,” writes Miss Cowley, “when at table she hears Miss Flint tell the servant, that _Mary’s_ plate needs no change? The very footman blushes. Why does she not insist on every one’s equality at her table? Surely, Lucy, the Gospel does not recommend with the spirit of peace, an insensibility to oppression! It is, however, too much for me to witness; and I am determined to have some conversation with Captain Flint when he returns. Something shall be done to mitigate this poor girl’s sufferings. I suspect she dares not complain to her uncle. I will do it for her, and trust to the event. I disdain that humanity which shrinks from active service, and can quiet its feelings by exhalting its sighs in _useless pity_ and _fretful censures_.”—“But,” adds she, renewing her wonted spirit, “I am called to order. My dear Mrs. Allen is sounding in my ears her direful predictions in regard to girls who love scribbling better than sleep, and sentiment better than roast beef. As pale faces bring up the rear of the evils she has mustered to frighten me, I will be docile, though to tell you the truth, her brow of tender solicitude has subdued me. How often have I drawn on her treasures of health! how often has she relinquished repose in order to watch over my infant wailings, and sickly frowardness! Never shall a care reach that bosom on which my head has rested, if I can prevent it! So I will go to bed. What an age it is since you have had letters from Horace! Ah! Lucy, you must pity Rachel Cowley, for she is discontented with herself, though always your RACHEL COWLEY.” CHAP VII. A Letter dated in October, and addressed to Miss Hardcastle, is fortunately recovered, and the thread of the narrative, which I found was broken, is by that means preserved. Trusting that my readers are by this time satisfied that Miss Cowley can tell her own story; and are convinced that no labours of mine could better tell it, I cheerfully resume my humble office of copyist. LETTER XI. _From Miss Cowley to Miss Hardcastle._