"Nothing new from Horace." Why, my dear Lucy, what could put it into your head that I wanted novelties from him? I only ask for his thrice, and thrice told tale of faith and love. I only want to know that he is cheerful and well. Did his last epistle resemble the letter which Mrs. Platman gave by mistake to her forty scholars to copy, and which had been composed on the subject of death, for the special purpose of supplying one of the girls with suitable language on the death of her grandfather, a man of ninety? But I am petulant, forgive me, Lucy. The incessant rain without, and the dearth of amusement within, had led me to hope you would have sympathetically felt that I wanted a cordial. I am disappointed, and I have yet to learn where to find your grand and infallible nostrum, _patience_: nay, what is more, I am disposed to think at this moment, that it resembles many other quack medicines, and promises more than it can perform. All constitutions are not alike, and I believe this specific, would do me more harm than good, from the _quantity_ I should be forced to take in the experiment: so you must be contented with me, and recollect, that a fire may burn cheerfully and usefully, although from time to time a coal bounces out, and startles you; you have only to move from the annoyance a moment, the transient danger passes, and you may return again in safety to the snug warm corner you had left. I was much disposed last Sunday to say with Miss Trotter, "that fifty fair-weather Sundays were scarcely an equivalent for two rainy ones." Ours was dreary: the poor baronet was out of spirit, and remarked twice at dinner, that we did not need so large a table for _four_ people. He might have added, nor half the dishes for _three_, for he ate nothing. My harp and Handel's music, did something, but I could not sing hymns and psalms forever. We therefore each took up a book. Lady Maclairn soon after entered from her visit to her sister. "How is Miss Flint?" asked Mrs. Allen, raising her meek eyes from her bible. "Much better," answered her ladyship, in a low key. "She would have dined below to-day, but she was afraid of catching cold." "I should hope that _shame_ had its share in this discretion," said Sir Murdock with vivacity.--"I am certain it had," replied she, with mildness, "and not only shame, but repentance."--There is no resisting this woman, Lucy! In saying these few words, she disarmed me, and I refrained from saying what would have hurt her, and done the offender no good. But, for the hundreth time, I will not say she is _undefinable!_ no, but she is _unfathomable!_ After tea, she surprised me by her unwonted gaiety and spirit in conversation; she drew me into arguments and debates with an address nearly equal to your father's, and, between ourselves, seemed to have his art of angling to perfection; for when she found the poor fish flouncing with fatigue, she gently set it free, and restored it to the clear stream. Malcolm,