Woodbridge: March 28, [1880.]

My dear Mrs. Kemble,

No—the Flowers were not from me—I have nothing full-blown to show except a few Polyanthuses, and a few Pansies. These Pansies never throve with me till last year: after a Cartload or two of Clay laid on my dry soil, I suppose, the year before. Insomuch that one dear little Soul has positively held on blowing, more or less confidently, all winter through; when even the Marigold failed.

Now, I meant to have intimated about those Flowers in a few French words on a Postcard—purposely to prevent your answering—unless your rigorous Justice could only be satisfied by a Post Card in return. But I was not sure how you might like my Card; so here is a Letter instead; which I really do beg you, as a favour, not to feel bound to answer. A time will come for such a word.

By the by, you can make me one very acceptable return, I hope with no further trouble than addressing it to me. That ‘Nineteenth Century’ for February, with a Paper on ‘King John’ (your Uncle) in it. [179] Our Country Bookseller has been for three weeks getting it for me—and now says he cannot get it—‘out of print.’ I rather doubt that the Copy I saw on your Table was only lent to you; if so, take no more trouble about it; some one will find me a Copy.

I shall revolve in my own noble mind what you say about Jessica and her Jewels: as yet, I am divided between you, and that old Serpent, Spedding. Perhaps ‘That is only his Fancy,’ as he says of Shylock. What a light, graceful, way of saying well-considered Truth!

I doubt you are serious in reminding me of my Tumbler on the Floor; and, I doubt not, quite right in being so. This comes of one’s living so long either with no Company, or with only free and easy. But I am always the same toward you, whether my Tumbler in the right place or not,

The Laird of Littlegrange.