MY DEAR SISTER;

As William writes so very slowly, and as papa does not think he should scribble at all, he has desired me to inform you of every thing that has passed since you left us. And first I must acquaint you with a sad accident, which will render one of your commissions useless. Poor Hector, the day after you went away, was lost for several hours. We went to every house in the village, and hunted behind every tomb in the church-yard; called, Hector! Hector! through all the fields, and then returned and sought him in our own garden again; looked under the bench in the poultry-yard, nay, even in the cellar and coal-hole; but no Hector returned. We sat down together on the bottom stair in the hall, and William cried ready to break his heart. Papa said he was sorry; but told us our tears would not bring him back, and advised us to bear the loss of him with more fortitude; took William on his lap, and read a story to divert him. We got tolerably cheerful, and went down to tea; but as soon as my brother took up his bread and butter, the thoughts of Hector always jumping up to him for a bit, and how he would bark, and snap in play at his fingers, quite overcame his firmness, and he could not touch a morsel. Well, to make short of the story, the next morning John came in and told papa, that 'Squire Sutton's game-keeper, not knowing to whom he belonged, had shot him for running after the deer.—Why now, said I, if he had but stayed away from the park till Jemima had brought him a collar, he would not have been killed. Poor Hector! I shall hate Ben Hunt as long as I live for it.—Fie, Charles! said my father.—Hector is dead, Sir, said I; and I did not then stay to hear any farther. But since that, we have talked a great deal about love and forgiveness; and I find I must love Ben Hunt, even though I now see poor Hector's tomb in the garden. For John went to fetch him, and we buried him under the lilac-tree, on the right hand side, just by the large sun-flower; and we cried a great deal, and made a card tomb-stone over his grave; and papa gave us an old hat-band, and we cut it into pieces, and we went as mourners. His coffin was carried by Tom Wood, the carpenter's son, whose father was so kind as to make it for us; while James Stavely (the clerk's nephew), my brother, and I, followed as chief mourners; and old Nurse and Peggy put on their black hoods, which they had when Jane Thompson died, and went with us; and we had the kitchen table-cloth for a pall, with the old black wrapper put over it which used to cover the parrot's cage; but we did not read any thing, for that would not have been right; as you know, after all, he was but a dog. Papa, however, to please us, wrote the following epitaph, which I very carefully transcribed, and affixed over his grave:—

I am very sorry for the poor fellow's untimely end; and so, I dare say, you will be.—Our rabbit has kindled; and we have one in particular the skin of which is white, with black spots, the prettiest I ever saw, and which we have called Jemima, and will give it to you when you return.—Peggy has sprained her ancle, by a fall down stairs. I forgot my wooden horse, and left it in the way; and she came down in the dark, and stumbled over it. I was very sorry, and my papa was much displeased, as it is what he has so often cautioned us against.—Jack Dough, the baker's boy, brought me a linnet yesterday, which I have placed in a cage near your canary-bird; who is very well.—I do not think I have much more to say, for writing is such tedious work that I am quite tired, though what I have done has been a fortnight in hand. I have a great many things which I want to tell you if we could meet; and I should wish to know how you like London. Good bye! William desires his love to you, and bids me say, that he, as well as myself, will ever be

Your affectionate Brother,    
Charles Placid.

P. S. Inclosed I have sent you a sketch of Hector's funeral procession, which your favourite, Ned Kindly, who was one of the party, drew on purpose for you.