It was so long since Fanny had had any letter from her, that she had reason to think lightly of that “friendship.” It was weeks since she had heard anything of Miss Crawford or anyone else in town, except through Mansfield. Indeed, she might never know whether Mr. Crawford had gone into Norfolk again or not till they met, and might never hear from his sister any more this spring. However, the following letter was received to revive old and create some new sensations—

“Forgive me, my dear Fanny, as soon as you can, for my long silence, and behave as if you could forgive me directly. This is my modest request and expectation, for you are so good, that I depend upon being treated better than I deserve, and I write now to beg an immediate answer. I want to know the state of things at Mansfield Park, and you, no doubt, are perfectly able to give it.

“One should be a brute not to feel for the distress they are in; and from what I hear, poor Mr. Bertram has a bad chance of ultimate recovery. I thought little of his illness at first. I looked upon him as the foolish sort to be made a fuss with, and to make a fuss himself in any trifling disorder, and was chiefly concerned for those who had to nurse him. But now it is confidently asserted that he is really in a decline, the symptoms are alarming, and that part of the family are aware of it. If it is so, you must be in that informed part, and therefore I entreat you to let me know if I have been rightly informed. How rejoiced I shall be if this were a mistake, but the report is so prevalent that I confess I cannot help trembling.

“To have such a fine young man cut off in the flower of his days is most melancholy. Poor Sir Thomas will feel it dreadfully. I really am quite agitated on the subject. Fanny, Fanny, I see you smile and look cunning, but, upon my honour, I never bribed a physician in my life—nor had I gone near enough to have a delightful sanguine sip. . . .

“Poor young man! If he is to die, there will be two poor young men less in the world. And with a fearless face and bold voice would I say to any one, that wealth and consequence could not fall into more deserving hands. It was a foolish precipitation last Christmas, but the evil of a few days may be blotted out in part. Varnish and gilding hide many stains. It will be but the loss of the Esquire after his name. With real affection, Fanny, like mine, more might be overlooked.