I am not _quite_ clear about the story; not because it is otherwise than
exceedingly pretty, but because I am rather in a difficult position as
to stories just now. Besides beginning a long one by Collins with the
new year (which will last five or six months), I have, as I always have
at this time, a considerable residue of stories written for the
Christmas number, not suitable to it, and yet available for the general
purposes of "Household Words." This limits my choice for the moment to
stories that have some decided specialties (or a great deal of story) in
them.
But I will look over the accumulation before you come, and I hope you
will never see your little friend again but in print.
You will find us expecting you on the night of the twenty-fourth, and
heartily glad to welcome you. The most terrific preparations are in hand
for the play on Twelfth Night. There has been a carpenter's shop in the
garden for six weeks; a painter's shop in the school-room; a gasfitter's
shop all over the basement; a dressmaker's shop at the top of the house;
a tailor's shop in my dressing-room. Stanfield has been incessantly on
scaffoldings for two months; and your friend has been writing "Little
Dorrit," etc. etc., in corners, like the sultan's groom, who was turned
upside-down by the genie.
Kindest love from all, and from me.
Ever affectionately.
[Sidenote: Mr. William Charles Kent.]