You know how
fond we--ay, dearest, you as well as I--used to be of dancing, and
how earnestly we were wont to anticipate those children's balls at my
uncle's, which were the only ones we were ever permitted to attend.
I found a stick the other day, on which I had cut seven notches,
significant of seven days more to the next ball; we reckoned time by
balls then, and danced chronologically. Well, my dear Eleanor, here I
am now, brought out, tolerably well-behaved, only not dignified enough,
according to Mamma,--as fond of laughing, talking, and dancing as ever;
and yet, do you know, a ball, though still very delightful, is far from
being the most important event in creation; its anticipation does
not keep me awake of a night: and what is more to the purpose,
its recollection does not make me lock up my writing-desk, burn my
portefeuille, and forget you, all of which you seem to imagine it has
been able to effect.

No, dearest Eleanor, you are mistaken; for, were she twice as giddy
and ten times as volatile as she is, your own Flora could never, never
forget you, nor the happy hours we have spent together, nor the pretty
goldfinches we had in common, nor the little Scotch duets we used to
sing together, nor our longings to change them into Italian, nor our
disappointment when we did so, nor our laughter at Signor Shrikalini,
nor our tears when poor darling Bijou died. And do you remember,
dearest, the charming green lawn where we used to play together, and
plan tricks for your governess? She was very, very cross, though, I
think, we were a little to blame too. However, I was much the worst!
And pray, Eleanor, don't you remember how we used to like being called
pretty, and told of the conquests we should make? Do you like all that
now? For my part, I am tired of it, at least from the generality of
one's flatterers.

Ah! Eleanor, or "heigho!" as the young ladies in novels write, do you
remember how jealous I was of you at ----, and how spiteful I was, and
how you were an angel, and bore with me, and kissed me, and told me
that--that I had nothing to fear? Well, Clar--I mean Mr. Linden, is now
in town and so popular, and so admired! I wish we were at ---- again,
for there we saw him every day, and now we don't meet more than three
times a week; and though I like hearing him praised above all things,
yet I feel very uncomfortable when that praise comes from very, very
pretty women. I wish we were at ---- again! Mamma, who i