Write to me by return of post, judge of my anxiety, and do not trifle with it. Tell me the real truth, as you have it from the fountainhead. And now, do not trouble yourself to be ashamed of either my feelings or your own. Believe me, for such one as myself, they are not only natural, they are philanthropic and virtuous. I put it to your conscience, whether ‘Sir Edmund’ would not do more good with all the Bertram property than any other possible ‘Sir.’ Had the Grants been at home I would not have troubled you, but you are now the only one I can apply to for the truth, his sisters not being within my reach. Mrs. R. has been spending the Easter with the Aylmers at Twickenham, and is not yet returned; and Julia is with the cousins who live near Bedford Square. Could I immediately apply to either, however, I should still prefer you, because they have all along been so unwilling to have their own amusements cut up, as to shut their eyes to the truth. I suppose Mrs. R.’s Easter holidays will not last much longer. The Aylmers are pleasant people; and her husband away, she can have nothing but enjoyment. I give her credit for promoting Mr. R.’s going dutifully down to Bath, to fetch his mother or howl at the moon there; but how will she and the dowager agree in one house? Henry is not at hand, so I have nothing to say from him. Do not you think Edmund would have been in town again long ago, but for this illness?

—Yours ever,

Mary.”

“I had actually begun folding my letter when Henry walked in. . . . But he brings no intelligence to prevent my sending it. Mrs. R. knows a decline is apprehended; he saw her this morning: she returns to Wimpole Street to-day; the old lady is come.