I wish you knew my sister-in-law; she is probably one of the sweetest
girls that ever breathed. Yet we are none of us perfect, and Grace has a
drawback. She cannot forget that I am a poet. A fortnight ago she wrote
to me:--
"Dear Edwin,--I am in such a fix. You remember Mary Smith? She has
persuaded a young doctor friend of hers to start an album for original
poems. He is such a nice fellow, though perhaps not very fond of poetry,
if left to himself. But he has bought the album and has asked her to
write on the first page. So she has come to me about it; and I am
writing to ask if you would be a great brick and help us, because we get
mixed up so with the feet, and I know it is nothing to you to write
poetry. Could you possibly let me have it by return?
Yours affectionately,
Grace.