the sort of feeling I have, when letters come I am perfectly miserable when they do, because, though it appears to me that I never think of anything but you all, yet I think still more, and with more bitter regret, just after the letters come in. However, it is no use saying so—only I never will care for anything else; but I suppose we are all placed where we ought to be, and that we must make the best of it, and it is impossible to be thankful enough that all these letters should come, and all bring such good accounts. Also, it is pleasant to be able to tell you how little we all suffer from the climate, detestable as it is. My health is better than it used to be at home. Fanny has not half the pains and aches she had latterly at the Admiralty. George is remarkably well, and it is so like his placid sort of luck; but his room is the only cool room in the house at all times of the year. Nobody knows why. My room and the drawing-room have precisely the same aspect, and are as hot as flames. It is just his cool way of taking things.
Wright is roaring and crying with the pleasure of two letters from her sisters, and is in a high state of excitement with a
