, I remain

'Ever your grateful and most obedient,

'WILM. PITT DALLAS.'

Esther, while her father was revelling in this letter, was taking a
very different sort of pleasure in hers. There was a fire up-stairs in
her room; she lit a candle, and, in the exquisite sense of having her
enjoyment all to herself, went slowly over the lines; as slowly as she
could.

'Lisbon, _Christmas Day_, 1813. 'MY DEAR LITTLE ESTHER,--If you think a
voyage over the sea is in anything like a journey by land, you are
mistaken. The only one thing in which they are alike, is that in both
ways you _get on_. But wheels go smoothly, even over a jolty road; and
waves do nothing but toss you. It was just one succession of rollings
and pitchings from the time we left New Bedford till we got sight of
the coast of Portugal. The wind blew all the time _almost_ a gale,
rising at different points of our passage to the full desert of the
name. One violent storm we had; and all the rest of the voyage we were
pitching about at such a rate that we had to fight for our meals;
tables were broken, and coffee and chocolate poured about with a
reckless disregard of economy. For about halt the way it rained
persistently; so altogether you may suppose, Queen Esther, that my
first experience has not made me in love with the sea. But it wasn't
bad, after all. The wind drove us along, that was one comfort; and it
would have driven us along much faster, if our sails had been good for
anything; but they were a rotten set, a match for the crew, who were a
rascally band of Portuguese. However, we drove along, as I said, seeing
nobody to speak to all the way except ourselves; not a sail in sight
nearer than eight or ten miles off.

'Well, the 23rd we sighted land, to everybody's great joy, you may
suppose. The wind fell, and that night was one of the most beautiful
and delicious you can imagine. A smooth sea without a ripple, a clear
sky without a cloud, stars shining down quietly, and air as soft as May
at Seaforth. I stood on deck half the night, enjoying, and thinking of
five hundred thousand things one after another. Now that I was almost
setting my foot on a new world, my life, past and future, seemed to
rise up and confront me; and I looked at it and took counsel with it,
as it were. Seaforth on one side, and Oxford on the other; the question
was, what should William Pitt be between them? The question never
looked so big to me before. Somehow, I believe, th