She said, 'I don't know which of us two I most
detest--myself or you. Myself for borrowing your money, or you for
lending it.' I left her; not feeling offended, only bewildered and
distressed. More than an hour passed before she made her excuses. 'I
am ill and miserable'--that was all she said. She did indeed look so
wretched that I forgave her directly. Would you not have done so too, in
my place?

"This happened a fortnight since. Only yesterday, she broke out again,
and put my affection for her to a far more severe trial. I have not got
over it yet.

"There was a message for her in Ovid's letter--expressed in the
friendliest terms. He remembered with gratitude her kind promise, on
saying good-bye; he believed she would do all that lay in her power to
make my life happy in his absence; and he only regretted her leaving him
in such haste that he had no time to thank her personally. Such was
the substance of the message. I was proud and pleased to go to her room
myself, and read it to her.

"Can you guess how she received me? Nobody--I say it positively--nobody
could guess.

"She actually flew into a rage! Not only with me (which I might have
pardoned), but with Ovid (which is perfectly inexcusable). 'How dare
he write to _you,'_ she burst out, 'of what I said to him when we took
leave of each other? And how dare you come here, and read it to me? What
do I care about your life, in his absence? Of what earthly consequence
are his remembrance and his gratitude to Me!' She spoke of him, with
such fury and such contempt, that she roused me at last. I said to her,
'You abominable woman, there is but one excuse for you--you're mad!' I
left the room--and didn't I bang the door! We have not met since. Let
me hear your opinion, Teresa. I was in a passion when I told her she was
mad; but was I altogether wrong? Do you really think the poor creature
is in her right senses?

"Looking back at your letter, I see that you ask if I have made any new
acquaintances.

"I have been introduced to one of the sweetest women I ever met with.
And who do you think she is? My other aunt--Mrs. Gallilee's younger
sister, Lady Northlake! They say she was not so handsome as Mrs.
Gallilee, when they were both young. For my part, I can only declare
that no such comparison is possible between them now. In look, in voice,
in manner there is something so charming in Lady Northlake that I quite
despair of describing it. My father used to say that s