The letters to Lesbia were of less consequence; for Lesbia, albeit so intensely beloved, was not in her grandmother's confidence, least of all about those schemes and dreams which concerned her own fate.
However, the letters had to be written, so Mary was told to open her desk and begin.
The letter to Lesbia ran thus:-- 'My dearest Child, 'This is a world in which our brightest day-dreams generally end in mere dreaming.

For years past I have cherished the hope of presenting you to your sovereign, to whom I was presented six and forty years ago, when she was so fair and girlish a creature that she seemed to me more like a queen in a fairy tale than the actual ruler of a great country.

I have beguiled my monotonous days with thoughts of the time when I should return to the great world, full of pride and delight in showing old friends what a sweet flower I had reared in my mountain home; but, alas, Lesbia, it may not be.
'Fate has willed otherwise.

The maimed hand does not recover, although Horton is very clever, and thoroughly understands my case.
I am not ill, I am not in danger; so you need feel no anxiety about me; but I am a cripple; and I am likely to remain a cripple for months; so the idea of a London season this year is hopeless.
'Now, as you have in a manner made your _debut_ at Cannes, it would never do to bury you here for another year.

You complained of the dullness last summer; but you would find Fellside much duller now that you have tasted the elixir of life.