Chapter 6.

Clareville then put the following letter into my hands.

It was from my own Elizabeth.

My dearest cousin, you have been ill, very ill, and even the constant letters of dear

kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account.

You are forbidden to write, to hold a pen.

Yet one word from you, dear victor, is necessary to call my apprehensions.

For a long time I have thought that each post would bring this line, and my persuasions

have restrained my uncle from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt.

I have prevented his encountering the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a journey.

Yet how often have I regretted not being able to perform it myself?

I figured to myself that the task of attending on your sick bed has devolved on some mercenary

old nurse, who could never guess your wishes nor minister to them with the care and affection

of your poor cousin.

Yet that is over now.

Clareville writes that indeed you are getting better.

I eagerly hope that you will confirm this intelligent soon in your own handwriting.

Get well and return to us.

You will find a happy cheerful home and friends who love you dearly.

Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see you, but to be assured that

you are well, and not a care will ever cloud his benevolent countenance.

How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of our earnest.

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