'Your uncle--but he will bear any charge on his conscience as long as he can get the burden off his shoulders. Do not fret, my own! Reperuse the above--you will see we have grounds for hope. 'He should have looked down on her! No tears from her eyes, but her eyes were tears. She does not rank among beautiful women. She has her moments for outshining them--the loveliest of spectres! She caught at my heart. I cannot forget her face looking up for him to look down. A great painter would have reproduced it, a great poet have rendered the impression. Nothing short of the greatest. That is odd to say of one so simple as she. But when accidents call up her reserves, you see mountain heights where mists were--she is actually glorified. Her friend--I do believe a friend--the Mr. Woodseer you are to remember meeting somewhere --a sprained ankle--has a dozen similes ready for what she is when pain or happiness vivify her. Or, it may be, tender charity. She says, that if she feels for suffering people, it is because she is the child of Chillon's mother. In like manner Chillon is the son of Janey's father. 'Mr. Woodseer came every other evening. Our only enlivenment. Livia followed her policy, in refusing to call. We lived luxuriously; no money, not enough for a box at the opera, though we yearned--you can imagine. Chapters of philosophy read out and expounded instead. Janey likes them. He sets lessons to her queer maid--reading, writing, pronunciation of English. An inferior language to Welsh, for poetical purposes, we are informed. So Janey--determining to apply herself to Welsh, and a chameleon Riette dreading that she will be taking a contrary view of the honest souls--as she feels them to be--when again under Livia's shadow. 'The message from Janey to Scrope's hotel was despatched half-an-hour after we had driven in from the park; fruit of a brown meditation. I wrote it--third person--a single sentence. Arrangements are made for her to travel comfortably. It is funny--the shops for her purchases of clothes, necessaries, etc., are specified; she may order to any extent. Not a shilling of money for her poor purse. What can be the secret of that? He does nothing without an object. To me, uniformly civil, no irony, few compliments. Livia writes, that I am commended for keeping Janey company. What can be the secret of a man scrupulously just with one hand, and at the same time cruel with the other? Mr. Woodseer says, his wealth:--"More money than is required for their needs, men go into harness to Plutus,"--if that is clever.