I want to know if you and Mr. Lister cannot come and dine with us while we are here. I never should have thought of asking anybody in such weather, but I had _offers_ from three friends this morning to come here next week, so that it is quite allowable to ask all my other friends. I daresay you did not think I had above three in the world, but I have. When will you come? I know you can’t the beginning of next week, because I have just had a note from Lady Salisbury asking us to meet you at Hatfield, but after that perhaps you can come. We cannot go to Hatfield. The Chancellor[358] has offered to take me to the Lord Mayor’s dinner on Monday, and I think it will be amusing and mean to accept. Sarah Sophia[359] says she proposes to take her food here on Tuesday. She never allows us an option. I wonder when it will be time to quarrel with her about politics or something else? Is not it _due to ourselves_ to have some explanations with her? I do not know what about, but a note or two ought to pass, first dignified and then pathetic, and then end with a dinner. I have no idea of the dinner without the explanation first. She has treated everybody but us with one. My garden is very flourishing and I have had the delight of sowing seeds to a great amount since Monday. I wish gardening were not so fatiguing. I like it so very much, but I am dead tired every night, and moreover there has been a _reform_ in our Society for visiting the Poor, and they have changed our plan of visiting, and given me a district at the farthest end of the town. A mile off at the least. Such a bore, and I have quite a new set of people to make acquaintance with. However, the acquaintance is soon made. I visited eight poor women this morning, and they had each had ten children, and had “buried the last, thank God, last year,” and they had all had beds to sleep on once, but had pledged them for rent, and they all could get nothing from the parish, and they generally ended with, “and if it would please God to take my poor old man, I could go home comfortably to my own parish.” “But _is_ your husband ill?” I asked. “No, Ma’am, not particular ill, but it may please God to take him and then I can go home.” I can see how extreme distress must destroy all affection, and how those very poor people must think that their children who die young, have made a great escape. You cannot imagine the misery of these pensioners’ wives. The husbands are well taken care of in every respect, but the wives have actually nothing. We seldom find above one in three with bedding or any furniture whatever. We are shamefully well off, Theresa. I always think of that frightful parable, “Remember that thou in thy lifetime receivedst thy good things,” etc. It is an ugly thought, is it not? And we have so many good things. I am always so happy here that it frightens me. So good-night, I am sleepy and will not think about it. Your most affectionate E. E. _Miss Eden to Mrs. Lister._