nd the weather; and it was not till we had been there more than
half-an-hour that I discovered that we were quite alone. We immediately
returned to the ball-room, where, luckily, our absence had not been
discovered, and in a few minutes were whirling round in a most
delightful waltz.

But I have forgotten the rest of the company. Foremost in dignity was
the Countess Auk, of Stornaway Rock, in the Hebrides; and with her were
her two nieces, Lady Isabella Snipe and the Honourable Miss Woodcock. I
saw Mr. Reynard, the celebrated member for Hollowoak, having a long
gossip with the Countess and her young charges, for both of whom he
seemed to profess great admiration. Mr. Jay, the member for
Chatterfield, was likewise there, and paid a good deal of attention, I
thought, to the Honourable Miss Dove, a cousin of Miss Pigeon's. Miss
Dove plays very nicely, and sometimes, when the band required rest, she
rattled off a waltz in fine style, Mr. Jay most attentively turning the
music-leaves.

Drinkwater also pointed out to me Miss Stork, the daughter of the
Attorney-General, so famous for the length of his bill; Miss Blaccap,
who, they say, sings as sweetly as a Robin-Redbreast; Lord Bruin, who
has just come from a tour in Russia; the Right Honourable Mr. Ramshead;
and a crowd of folks, more or less known, most of whom _would_ stand by
the doorway and prevent the servants and the fresh air from entering the
room.

About three o'clock the Countess of Auk's carriage was summoned, and the
company began to retire. Drinkwater and I stood shivering on the stairs
full half-an-hour before Lady Goldfinch's brougham was announced; and
when we reached home, I found I had been fast asleep with my head on
Drinkwater's shoulder.

Ten days after Lady Chaffinch's ball, I was obliged to tear myself away
from my kind aunt and my dear cousin, and with only Tom-tit for my
companion, to return to this dismal Gorse Bush, which I used to think
the sweetest of homes. Now I do nothing but wonder how long it will be
before my aunt invites me to London again. Tom-tit brings me letters
from the post-boy much oftener than before, and were it not for them, I
do not think I could bear my existence.

* * * * *

This is the substance of some letters I have lately received from my
dear friend, Julia Linnet. She is a warm-hearted little thing, easily
led away by her enthusiasm. At first, I was afraid she would pine away
with me