say half I now think—I feel selfish in leaving you, and fancy a thousand things in which, had I been near, I might have helped you. Remember me kindly to Mr. Blanchard. God bless you, my dearest brother, your affectionate
"L. E. Maclean."
Finally, she thus writes to her mother in the month of September.
"My dear Mother—Though this is but a hurried opportunity of writing, I will not let the African sail without a few lines. I suffered most dreadfully, during the voyage, from sea-sickness—during the whole six weeks I scarcely held up my head; but, since I landed, I have been perfectly well,—indeed, in some respects, better than I have been for many months. You cannot imagine how different everything here is to England. I hope, however, in time, to get on pretty well. There is, nevertheless, a great deal to do. I have never been accustomed to housekeeping, and here everything must be seen to yourself; it matters not what it is, it must be kept under lock and key. I get up at seven, breakfast at eight, and give out flour, butter, sugar, ale, from the store. I have found the bag you gave me so useful to hold the keys, of which I have a little army. We live almost entirely upon chicken and duck, for if a sheep be killed, it must be all eaten that day. The bread is very good; they use palm-wine for yeast. Yams are a capital substitute for potatoes; pies and puddings are never thought of, unless there is a party. The washing has been a terrible trouble, but I am getting on better. I have found a woman to wash some of the things, but the men do all the starching and ironing. Never did people re-
