Mr. and Mrs. Robertson are going off directly to the Cape on account of his health, but it will be just as good for her. Everybody is at their yellowest, because the rains have been a failure, and August has turned out as ill as September. It is just what Dr. told us about September, which is not nice, but true, that it feels like living in a hot poultice; and he says that the cold weather, which people make a fuss about, is like a cold one. Everybody almost has been ill except us.
My dearest Robert,—I am going to try an overland despatch to you, and there is just a danger that you will be overwhelmed with letters all at once—be like a babe in the wood, buried painfully with leaves, or sheets.
Fanny has written a long letter to Mary by the ‘Perfect,’ which sailed on Saturday (the 27th), and I also wrote to you. There was not much in it, except that I mentioned a small present I had sent Mary—a nest of Burmese boxes, and
