felt a sisterly compassion for the poor little folded paper. I kissed it for the sake of those who sent it forth into the wide world, and put it into my bosom. But O, when I read it! Now, Anne, I will tell you the truth; it was cold; perhaps it was written on one of your cold Canada days, or perchance it lost a little heat on the way. It did not seem to come from the very heart of hearts; it looked as though it were written 'to a young lady at the Troy Seminary,' not to your dear, dear, dear sister Luly. Mr. K. has thus far been a father to me, and I thank him; but I will not mock my feelings by attempting to say how much I thank him."
"My dear mother! O how I wish I 'could lay my head upon your bosom! I hope you do not keep my letters, for I certainly have burned all yours;[1] and I stood like a little fool and wept over their ashes; and when I saw the last one gone, I felt as though I had parted with my last friend." Then, after expressing an earnest wish that her mother would destroy her letters, she says, "They have no connection. When I write, everything comes crowding upon me at once; my pen moves too slow for my brain and my heart, and I feel vexed at myself, and tumble in everything together, and a choice medley you have of it!
"U attended Mr. Ball's public (assembly) last night, and had a delightful evening; but now for something of more importance,—Ex-am-i-na-tion! I had just begun to be engaged, heart and hand, preparing for it, when, by some means, I took a violent cold. I was unable to raise my voice above a whisper, and coughed incessantly.
- ↑ This was in consequence of a positive command from her mother.
