She writes again to Mr. Fields in the month of June: “I am in somewhat better trim, although the getting out of doors and into the pony-chaise, from which Mr. May hoped such great things, has hardly answered his expectations.... I am still unable to stand or walk unless supported by Sam’s strong hands. However I am in as good spirits as ever, and just at this moment most comfortably seated under the acacia tree at the corner of my house—the beautiful acacia, literally loaded with snowy chains—the flowering trees this summer—lilacs, laburnums, rhododendrons, azalias—have been one mass of blossoms, and none as graceful as this waving acacia.... On one side a syringa ... a jar of roses on the table before me—fresh-gathered roses, the pride of Sam’s heart; and little Fanchon at my feet, too idle to eat the biscuits with which I am trying to tempt her—biscuits from Boston, sent to me by Mrs. Sparks, whose kindness is really indefatigable, and which Fanchon ought to like upon that principle if upon no other, but you know her laziness of old. Well, that is a picture of Swallowfield Cottage at this moment.” Among the many gifts from admiring readers of the _Recollections of a Literary Life_ that arrived at Swallowfield were choice plants for the garden. No less than twelve climbing roses for the front of her house appeared from the Hertfordshire nurseries, also two seedlings called in honour of her the “Miss Mitford” and the “Swallowfield.” Mary Mitford writes to Mr. Fields:— “Never, my dear friend, did I expect to like so well a man who came in your place as I do like Mr. Ticknor.... It is delightful to hear him talk of you, and to feel that sort of elder brotherhood which a senior partner must exercise is in such hands. He was very kind to little Harry, and Harry likes him _next_ to you. He came here on Saturday with the dear Bennocks, and the Kingsleys met him. Mr. Hawthorne was to have come but could not leave Liverpool so soon, so that is a pleasure to come. “Mr. Ticknor will tell you that all is arranged for printing with Colburn’s successors, Hurst and Blackett, two separate works, the plays and dramatic scenes forming one, the stories to be headed by a long tale, of which I have always had the idea in my head to form almost a novel. God grant me strength to do myself and my publishers justice in that story!” The title of the new book was _Atherton and other Stories_. They are as fresh and bright in style as if the author were in perfect health, and yet it was, as she writes to Mr. Fields, “in the midst of the terrible cough, which did not allow me to lie down in bed, and a weakness difficult to describe, that I finished _Atherton_.”