only wish she would be as pleased with him
as I am, but she always provokes me by saying he has not sufficient
_esprit_; nor is he quite handsome enough to please her; and yet she
never refuses his attentions or shrinks from his conversation, as, if I
disliked him (as when we are alone she appears to do), I know I should.
Do not tremble for my peace, dear Mary, as you read these flowing
descriptions. In society they are most agreeable, but as the partner of
my life, I have not yet seen one to whom, were the question asked, I
could with any hope of happiness give my hand. These scenes are well for
a time, but they are not those in which I would wish to pass my life. My
wishes are humbler, much humbler; but I do not yet understand them
sufficiently even to define them to myself. It is much the same with the
young ladies of rank with whom I now frequently associate; they are
agreeable companions, but not one, no, not one can supply your place,
dearest Mary. Not one can I love as I do you. We have no ideas in
common; amiable and good as in all probability they are, still, as my
intimate friends I could not regard them; and yet--strange contradiction
you will say--I wish Caroline could find one amongst them to supply the
place of Annie Grahame in her heart. Why am I so prejudiced against her,
you will ask. Mary, I am prejudiced, and I cannot help it. Something
tells me my sister will obtain no good from this intimacy, I never did
like her, and of late this feeling has increased. Ellen is pleased, too,
when her health permits her to join our agreeable little coteries. She
appears overcoming her very great reserve, but does not become more
lively. She looks always to me, as if she felt a stain yet lingers on
her character, and though mamma and papa treat her even more kindly than
they did before, if possible, still there are times when to me she
appears inwardly unhappy. Strangers would only pronounce her more
pensive than usual for her years; for her slight figure and very
delicate features, as well as retiring manner, make her appear even
younger than she is, but I sometimes fancy I read more. She is always
calm and gentle as she used to be, and I never can discover when
anything vexes her, except by her heightened colour, which is more
easily visible now than when her health was better.

I am summoned away, dear Mary, to go with mamma to ride, and as this
leaves to night, I must not write more now; but I intend teasing you