“The pomp of groves and garniture of fields,” --than a close room in a suburban lodging-house; the sun piercing every corner; nothing fresh, nothing cool, nothing fragrant to be seen, felt, or inhaled; all dust, glare, noise, with a chandler’s shop, perhaps, next door? Sidney armed with a pair of scissors, was cutting the pictures out of a story-book, which his mother had bought him the day before. Philip, who, of late, had taken much to rambling about the streets--it may be, in hopes of meeting one of those benevolent, eccentric, elderly gentlemen, he had read of in old novels, who suddenly come to the relief of distressed virtue; or, more probably, from the restlessness that belonged to his adventurous temperament;--Philip had left the house since breakfast. “Oh! how hot this nasty room is!” exclaimed Sidney, abruptly, looking up from his employment. “Sha’n’t we ever go into the country, again, mamma?” “Not at present, my love.” “I wish I could have my pony; why can’t I have my pony, mamma?” “Because,--because--the pony is sold, Sidney.” “Who sold it?” “Your uncle.” “He is a very naughty man, my uncle: is he not? But can’t I have another pony? It would be so nice, this fine weather!” “Ah! my dear, I wish I could afford it: but you shall have a ride this week! Yes,” continued the mother, as if reasoning with herself, in excuse of the extravagance, “he does not look well: poor child! he must have exercise.” “A ride!--oh! that is my own kind mamma!” exclaimed Sidney, clapping his hands. “Not on a donkey, you know!--a pony. The man down the street, there, lets ponies. I must have the white pony with the long tail. But, I say, mamma, don’t tell Philip, pray don’t; he would be jealous.” “No, not jealous, my dear; why do you think so?” “Because he is always angry when I ask you for anything. It is very unkind in him, for I don’t care if he has a pony, too,--only not the white one.” Here the postman’s knock, loud and sudden, started Mrs. Morton from her seat. She pressed her hands tightly to her heart, as if to still its beating, and went tremulously to the door; thence to the stairs, to anticipate the lumbering step of the slipshod maidservent. “Give it me, Jane; give it me!” “One shilling and eightpence--double charged--if you please, ma’am! Thank you.” “Mamma, may I tell Jane to engage the pony?” “Not now, my love; sit down; be quiet: I--I am not well.” Sidney, who was affectionate and obedient, crept back peaceably to the window, and, after a short, impatient sigh, resumed the scissors and the story-book. I do not apologise to the reader for the various letters I am obliged to lay before him; for character often betrays itself more in letters than in speech. Mr. Roger Morton’s reply was couched in these terms,--