manners, her dainty personal and household ways, had quite done
away with it, and she says that she thinks they begin to like
her, and that she likes them much, for "kindness is a potent
heart-winner." She had stipulated that she should not be expected
to see many people. The recluse life she had led, was the cause
of a nervous shrinking from meeting any fresh face, which lasted
all her life long. Still, she longed to have an idea of the
personal appearance and manners of some of those whose writings
or letters had interested her. Mr. Thackeray was accordingly
invited to meet her, but it so happened that she had been out for
the greater part of the morning, and, in consequence, missed the
luncheon hour at her friend's house. This brought on a severe and
depressing headache in one accustomed to the early, regular hours
of a Yorkshire Parsonage; besides, the excitement of meeting,
hearing, and sitting next a man to whom she looked up with such
admiration as she did to the author of "Vanity Fair," was of
itself overpowering to her frail nerves. She writes about this
dinner as follows:--

"Dec. 10th, 1849.

"As to being happy, I am under scenes and circumstances of
excitement; but I suffer acute pain sometimes,--mental pain, I
mean. At the moment Mr. Thackeray presented himself, I was
thoroughly faint from inanition, having eaten nothing since a
very slight breakfast, and it was then seven o'clock in the
evening. Excitement and exhaustion made savage work of me that
evening. What he thought of me I cannot tell."

She told me how difficult she found it, this first time of