“You cannot,” she remarks, “be ignorant that your books are re-printed and widely circulated on this side of the Atlantic, but ... it is probably difficult for you to realize that your name has penetrated beyond our maritime cities, and is familiar and honoured and loved through many a village circle, and to the borders of the lonely depths of unpierced woods—that we venerate ‘Mrs. Mosse’ and are lovers of ‘Sweet Cousin Mary’ ... and, in short, that your pictures have wrought on our affections like realities. “... My niece, a child of nine years old, who is sitting by me, not satisfied with requesting that her _love_ may be sent to Miss Mitford, has boldly aspired to the honour of addressing a postscript to her, and I ... not forgetting who has allowed us a precedent for spoiling children, have consented to her wishes. Forgive us both, dear Miss Mitford.” In her little letter the child asks after the various characters in the stories that have taken her fancy, not forgetting the pretty greyhound Mayflower. Miss Mitford responds in the following way:— “My dear young friend, “I am very much obliged to you for your kind enquiries respecting the people in my book. It is much to be asked about by a little lady on the other side of the Atlantic, and we are very proud of it accordingly. ‘May’ was a real greyhound, and everything told of her was literally true; but alas! she is no more.... ‘Harriet’ and ‘Joel’ are not married yet; you shall have the very latest intelligence of her. I am expecting two or three friends to dinner and she is making an apple-tart and custards—which I wish with all my heart that you and your dear aunt were coming to partake of. The rest of the people are all doing well in their several ways, and I am always, my dear little girl, “Most sincerely yours, M. R. MITFORD.” CHAPTER XXXV A LONDON WELCOME In the spring of 1836 Miss Mitford paid a short visit to London. She stayed in the house of her father’s old friend Sergeant Talfourd, No. 56 Russell Square. Her stories were so well known by this time, and so universally admired, that she received quite an ovation from the literary world. Dinners and receptions were given in her honour, and she had the pleasure of meeting many a writer whose works she valued highly but whose personality was hitherto unknown to her. Amongst these was the poet Wordsworth. Writing to her father on May 26th she says:— “Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Landor and Mr. White dined here. I like Mr. Wordsworth of all things; he is a most venerable-looking old man, delightfully mild and placid, and most kind to me”; and again she writes: “You cannot imagine how very very kindly Mr. Wordsworth speaks of my poor works. You who know what I think of him can imagine how much I am gratified by his praise.” Speaking of the other guests, she says:—