Dear Saint, I'm still at High-Hurst Park. The house is fill'd with folks of mark. Honoria suits a good estate Much better than I hoped. How fate Loads her with happiness and pride! And such a loving lord, beside! But between us, Sweet, everything Has limits, and to build a wing To this old house, when Courtholm stands Empty upon his Berkshire lands, And all that Honor might be near Papa, was buying love too dear. With twenty others, there are two Guests here, whose names will startle you: Mr. and Mrs. Frederick Graham! I thought he stay'd away for shame. He and his wife were ask'd, you know, And would not come, four years ago. You recollect Miss Smythe found out Who she had been, and all about Her people at the Powder-mill; And how the fine Aunt tried to instil _Haut ton_, and how, at last poor Jane Had got so shy and _gauche_ that, when The Dockyard gentry came to sup, She always had to be lock'd up; And some one wrote to us and said Her mother was a kitchen-maid. Dear Mary, you'll be charm'd to know It _must_ be all a fib. But, oh, She _is_ the oddest little Pet On which my eyes were ever set! She's so _outree_ and natural That, when she first arrived, we all Wonder'd, as when a robin comes In through the window to eat crumbs At breakfast with us. She has sense, Humility, and confidence; And, save in dressing just a thought Gayer in colours than she ought, (To-day she looks a cross between Gipsy and Fairy, red and green,) She always happens to do well. And yet one never quite can tell What she _might_ do or utter next. Lord Clitheroe is much perplex'd. Her husband, every now and then, Looks nervous; all the other men Are charm'd. Yet she has neither grace, Nor one good feature in her face. Her eyes, indeed, flame in her head, Like very altar-fires to Fred, Whose steps she follows everywhere Like a tame duck, to the despair Of Colonel Holmes, who does his part To break her funny little heart. Honor's enchanted. 'Tis her view That people, if they're good and true, And treated well, and let alone, Will kindly take to what's their own, And always be original, Like children. Honor's just like all The rest of us! But, thinking so, 'Tis well she miss'd Lord Clitheroe, Who hates originality, Though he puts up with it in me. Poor Mrs. Graham has never been To the Opera! You should have seen The innocent way she told the Earl She thought Plays sinful when a girl, And now she never had a chance! Frederick's complacent smile and glance Towards her, show'd me, past a doubt, Honoria had been quite cut out. 'Tis very strange; for Mrs. Graham, Though Frederick's fancy none can blame, Seems the last woman you'd have thought _Her_ lover would have ever sought. She never reads, I find, nor goes Anywhere; so that I suppose She got at all she ever knew By growing up, as kittens do. Talking of kittens, by-the-bye, You have more influence than I With dear Honoria. Get her, Dear, To be a little more severe With those sweet Children.