And now he was more to her, and nearer to her, than even was her sister or her mother! She recollected how she had laughed at him behind his back, and called him a swell on the first day of his coming to the Small House, and how, also, she had striven, in her innocent way, to look her best when called upon to go out and walk with the stranger from London.
He was no longer a stranger now, but her own dearest friend.
She had put down her pen that she might think of all this--by no means for the first time--and then resumed it with a sudden start as though fearing that the postman might be in the village before her letter was finished.

"Dearest Adolphus, I need not tell you how delighted I was when your letter was brought to me this morning." But I will not repeat the whole of her letter here.

She had no incident to relate, none even so interesting as that of Mr Crosbie's encounter with Mr Harding at Barchester.

She had met no Lady Dumbello, and had no counterpart to Lady Alexandrina, of whom, as a friend, she could say a word in praise.

John Eames's name she did not mention, knowing that John Eames was not a favourite with Mr Crosbie; nor had she anything to say of John Eames, that had not been already said.