itting.

"I am safe to be all right to-morrow, so pray don't fret. I am, dear
mother," etc., etc.

"DEAREST MOTHER,--I hope you are not fretting about me. Dr. Amboyne
promised to stop all that. But do write, and say you are not fretting
and fancying all manner of things at my cutting away so suddenly. It was
the doctor's doing. And, mother, I shall not stay long away from you,
for I slept twelve hours at a stretch last night, and now I'm another
man. But really, I think the air of that Cairnhope Peak would cure a
fellow at his last gasp.

"Thank you for the linen, and the brushes, and things. But you are not
the sort to forget anything a fellow might want," etc.

"No, my darling son. Be in no hurry to leave Cairnhope. Of course, love,
I was alarmed at first; for I know doctors make the best of every thing;
and then the first parting!--that is always a sorrowful thing. But, now
you are there, I beg you will stay till you are quite recovered. Your
letters are a delight, and one I could not have, and you as well, you
know.

"Since you are at Cairnhope--how strange that seems--pray go and see
the old church, where your forefathers are buried. There are curious
inscriptions, and some brasses nobody could decipher when I was a girl;
but perhaps you might, you are so clever. Your grandfather's monument
is in the chancel: I want you to see it. Am I getting very old, that my
heart turns back to these scenes of my youth?

"P.S.--Who is this Martha Dence?"

"DEAR MOTHER,--Martha Dence is the farmer's daughter I lodge with. She
is not so pretty as her sister Jael that is with Miss Carden; but she is
a comely girl, and as good as gold, and bespoke by the butcher. And her
putting slices from her plate to mine is a village custom, I find.

"Mother, the people here are wonderfully good and simple. First of all,
there's farmer Dence, with his high bald head, like a patriarch of old;
and he sits and beams with benevolence, but does not talk much. But he
lets me see I can stay with him six years, if I choose. Then, there's
Martha, hospitality itself, and ready to fly at my enemies like a
mastiff. She is a little hot in the temper, feathers up in a moment;
but, at a soft word, they go down again as quick. Then, there's the
village blacksmith. I call him 'The gentle giant.' He is a tremendous
fellow in height, and size, and sinew; but such a kind, sweet-tempered
chap. He could knock down an ox, yet he wouldn't harm a fly. I a