I did not find the journey fatiguing; I was not sea-sick—but I was sorrowful—very sorrowful, I assure you. You will say that I am childish, when I tell you, that, during the voyage, as often as I thought of the last kiss you gave me, I could scarcely restrain my tears, or mention your name without sobbing. I hid myself in a corner of the cabin, that I might weep freely without being seen: I was not ashamed of it; yet as the captain endeavoured to amuse me, I did not wish him to know that I was so very unhappy. Besides, my dear mother, my tears will not flow when any one looks at me;—but I will have done. I know you love me, and I would not willingly grieve you. My heart is lighter. What a great city this is! and how full the streets are of people! The large towns in Holland are nothing to it. Every thing pleases me; but I find not here my dear mother: I cannot run hastily home to tell her all I have seen, and I do not half enjoy the fine sights. You praised Lady Grandison; indeed she is so good-natured every one must love her, as soon as they see her face. How she pressed me in her arms when I arrived—just as you do, when you are pleased with me. And Sir Charles Grandison, oh! I cannot tell you what a worthy man he seems to be: he is so tender-hearted. My father was like him, I dare say; yes, he certainly was, for you have often told me that he was a good man. Ah! had I yet that father, how happy should I be: I would love and obey him, as young Charles obeys his father; and I should not love you less. God, you have frequently said, is now in a peculiar manner my father. I pray every night to him, with more earnestness than ever, to bless my mother, my only parent, and to enable me to be a comfort to her. Now farewel, my dear mother, think often of me, and love your own WILLIAM. LETTER II. _Mrs._ D—— _to_ WILLIAM.