that at least this youngest of the Virginians is
still alive, here is an authentic copy of a letter from the lady into
whose house he was taken after his fall from Mr. Will's brute of a
broken-kneed horse, and in whom he appears to have found a kind friend:

"TO MRS. ESMOND WARRINGTON, OF CASTLEWOOD

"At her House at Richmond, in Virginia

"If Mrs. Esmond Warrington of Virginia can call to mind twenty-three
years ago, when Miss Rachel Esmond was at Kensington Boarding School,
she may perhaps remember Miss Molly Benson, her class-mate, who has
forgotten all the little quarrels which they used to have together (in
which Miss Molly was very often in the wrong), and only remembers
the generous, high-spirited, sprightly, Miss Esmond, the Princess
Pocahontas, to whom so many of our school-fellows paid court.

"Dear madam! I cannot forget that you were dear Rachel once upon a time,
as I was your dearest Molly. Though we parted not very good friends when
you went home to Virginia, yet you know how fond we once were. I
still, Rachel, have the gold etui your papa gave me when he came to our
speech-day at Kensington, and we two performed the quarrel of Brutus
and Cassius out of Shakspeare; and 'twas only yesterday morning I was
dreaming that we were both called up to say our lesson before the awful
Miss Hardwood, and that I did not know it, and that as usual Miss Rachel
Esmond went above me. How well remembered those old days are! How young
we grow as we think of them! I remember our walks and our exercises,
our good King and Queen as they walked in Kensington Gardens, and their
court following them, whilst we of Miss Hardwood's school curtseyed in
a row. I can tell still what we had for dinner on each day of the week,
and point to the place where your garden was, which was always so much
better kept than mine. So was Miss Esmond's chest of drawers a model of
neatness, whilst mine were in a sad condition. Do you remember how we
used to tell stories in the dormitory, and Madame Hibou, the French
governess, would come out of bed and interrupt us with her hooting? Have
you forgot the poor dancing-master, who told us he had been waylaid by
assassins, but who was beaten, it appears, by my lord your brother's
footmen? My dear, your cousin, the Lady Maria Esmond (her papa was, I
think, but Viscount Castlewood in those times), has just been on a visit
to this house, where you may be sure I did not recall those sad times to
her reme