Evelyn’s first letters, though short, were happy and hopeful. She made a tour of about six weeks in the northern counties of England, visiting also a part of Scotland. Soon after her return to the house of her husband, which, my readers will remember, was also that of her beloved, though unknown father, I received from my friend a long letter, which I shall proceed to transcribe, that she may speak for herself: EVELYN TRAVERS TO MARY MILDMAY. The Abbey, Woodlands, Derbyshire, } July ——, 18——. } You upbraid me for my long silence and short letters, my own Mary, forgetting that I have been, for the last few weeks, incessantly on the move, besides having suffered, with becoming patience, that infliction miscalled “the honey-moon,” which, with the exception of courtship, is certainly the dullest and most unprofitable period of one’s life. Now that I am settled in my new home, or rather, shall I not say, in my beloved _old_ home, (for was it not that of my father?) I can sit down and endeavor to fulfil your wishes, by giving you a detailed account of all you may desire to know. First, then, this is the dearest old place in the world—inexpressibly so to me, for the sake of that dear father, whom, though unknown, I love better than any living thing. Even as I write, I have his full-length portrait before me—of life-size, and so like my impression of him, that I should have recognized it anywhere. Yes, there are the mild blue eyes, the noble features, the intellectual brow, I have frequently seen bending over my couch in my dreams, when I felt happy—_so_ happy in the thought that, though absent in body, he might, perhaps, still be permitted, by a mysterious Providence, to guide and guard his daughter. My husband and myself have an apartment in the left wing of the old Abbey, which is completely overgrown with ivy. We have a bed-chamber, with two dressing-rooms attached—a smoking cabinet for Edward, full of guns, and ugly-looking hooks to torment the poor fishes; and worse than all—I regret to say—the chimney is ornamented with hideous old pipes, of all shapes and sizes. There is, of course, a drawing room, and the sweetest boudoir for me. This completes our suite of apartments. Stay—I am wrong. There is yet another room, with hangings of blue and white, (your favorite colors) which I have already named, Mary’s “Canserie,” in the fond hope it will shortly be occupied by her. Am I wrong? My boudoir is quite a “ladye’s bower,” its latticed windows, overlooking the flower garden, include also a more distant view of the park, with a glimpse of the blue hills of Derbyshire, the lordly Peak towering far above his companions in the dim and distant horizon.