My dearest , — I think, like Mrs. Crummles, I have made a ‘stride and a stop,’ and rather a long stop, in my journal; but we had a week of shockingly hot weather, and I find that the real Indian fashion of doing nothing but lie on the sofa and read is the only way of breaking that sort of heat. Luckily we have had a small proportion of it this year, and the rains are now fairly set in, which is a great blessing. We came back from Barrackpore last night.
Poor Rosina seems to be gradually getting worse. Dr. Goodeve has been to see her as well as Dr. Drummond, but they both agree that she can never get well, though she may linger on for a long time, but it will end at last in abscess on the liver. She was carried up to my room this morning, and, as usual, she struck me as a dear, sensible old body. She has added some English sense to her native qualifications, and she likes all English fashions, and this morning she told me she wanted Wright to write down her will for her. She has a great
