charges
of my sending to you. I cried for vexation.--And now I have not five
shillings left to support me, if I can get away.--Was ever such a fool
as I! I must be priding myself in my contrivances, indeed! said I. Was
this your instructions, wolfkin? (for she called me lambkin). Jezebel,
you mean, child! said she.--Well, I now forgive you heartily; let's buss
and be friends.--Out upon you said I; I cannot bear you!--But I durst
not call her names again; for I dread her huge paw most sadly. The more
I think of this thing, the more do I regret it, and blame myself.

This night the man from the post-house brought a letter for Mrs. Jewkes,
in which was one enclosed for me: She brought it me up. Said she, Well,
my good master don't forget us. He has sent you a letter: and see what
he writes to me. So she read, That he hoped her fair charge was well,
happy, and contented. Ay, to be sure, said I, I can't choose--That he
did not doubt her care and kindness to me: that I was very dear to him,
and she could not use me too well; and the like. There's a master for
you! said she: sure you will love and pray for him. I desired her to
read the rest. No, no, said she, but I won't. Said I, Are there any
orders for taking my shoes away, and for beating me? No, said she, nor
about Jezebel neither. Well, returned I, I cry truce; for I have no mind
to be beat again. I thought, said she, we had forgiven one another.

My letter is as follows:

'MY DEAR PAMELA,

'I begin to repent already, that I have bound myself, by promise, not to
see you till you give me leave; for I think the time very tedious.
Can you place so much confidence in me, as to invite me down? Assure
yourself, that your generosity shall not be thrown away upon me. I the
rather would press this, as I am uneasy for your uneasiness; for Mrs.
Jewkes acquaints me, that you take your restraint very heavily; and
neither eat, drink, nor rest well; and I have too great interest in your
health, not to wish to shorten the time of this trial; which will be
the consequence of my coming down to you. John, too, has intimated to me
your concern, with a grief that hardly gave him leave for utterance; a
grief that a little alarmed my tenderness for you. Not that I fear any
thing, but that your disregard to me, which yet my proud heart will
hardly permit me to own, may throw you upon some rashness, that might
encourage a daring hope: But how poorly do I descend, to be anxious
about such a