mortification to any woman to look as old as her mother, which you certainly did when we parted; and I greatly fear the sirocco winds and the blazing suns of Italy have made you resemble a parchment threadpaper at this time."
"Well or ill, near or distant, mamma is all herself to me at least," said Mary, as she put this amiable letter into Isabella's hand. "I have heard several ladies say they could not help having a peculiar feeling for their first-born; in her case, it is more peculiar than agreeable, I must say."
"Dear Mary, we cannot talk of mamma just now. A large packet has been brought to me, which undoubtedly came by the same vessel which brought the mail. My maid was inquired for below, and the pacquet delivered into her hands, with an injunction that she should give it me when I was alone, and say it came from a lady at Marseilles. There can be no doubt that it is from Lady Osmond; it seems to me, from feeling it, to be nearly all paper, and probably contains a history of her life. Had I better mention having received it before I opened it, or after?"
"After, undoubtedly, or you will deal unfairly by the writer, who may not choose to throw her history before the eyes of your husband; but, as it may take a good deal of reading, and Mr. Glentworth may break in upon you, you had better read it
