dear
Mrs. Jameson left her Madonna for us in despite of the printers. Such
kindness, on all sides. Ah, there's kindness in England after all. Yet I
grew cold to the heart as I set foot on the ground of it, and wished
myself away. Also, the sort of life is not perhaps the best for me and
the sort of climate is really the worst.

You heard of Mr. Kenyon's goodness to us; I told Arabel to tell you.

But I must end here. Another time I will talk of Paris, which I do hope
will suit us as a residence. I was quite well there, the three weeks we
stayed, and am far from well just now. You see, the weight of the
atmosphere, which seems to me like lead, combined with the excitement,
is too much at once. Oh, it won't be very bad, I dare say. I mean to try
to be quiet, and abjure for the future the night air.

I should not omit to tell you in this quantity of egotism that my
husband's father and sister have received me most affectionately. She is
highly accomplished, with a heart to suit the head.

Now do write. Let me hear all about you, and how dear Mr. Martin and
yourself are. Robert's cordial regards with those of

Your ever affectionate and ever grateful
BA.

* * * * *

_To Mrs. Martin_

26 Devonshire Street: Saturday, [about August 1851].

My dearest Mrs. Martin,--Day by day, and hour by hour almost, I have
wanted to thank you again and again for your remedy (which I did not
use, by the bye, being much better), and to answer your inquiry about
me, which really I could not deliver over to Arabel to answer; but the
baby did not go to the country with Wilson, and I have been 'devoted'
since she went away; _une ame perdue_, with not an instant out of the
four-and-twenty hours to call my own. It appeared, at the last, that
Wilson would have a drawback to her enjoyments in having the child, and
I did not choose that: she had only a fortnight, you see, after five
years, to be with her family. So I took her place with him; it was
necessary, for he was in a state of deplorable grief when he missed her,
and has refused ever since to allow any human being except me to do a
single thing for him. I hold him in my arms at night, dress and wash him
in the morning, walk out with him, and am not allowed either to read or
write above three minutes at a time. He has learnt to say in English 'No
more,' and I am bound to be obedient. Perhaps I may make out five
minutes just to write this, for he is play