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I think, as Molton does, that she will come to her
senses—that she will repent of having written that letter.
Nay, if she have any heart left, she will weep, to think, how
unkindly she requited the greatest offering of a proud
spirit—itself. I observe some pencil notes, in the handwriting
of Molton; but I have no time to read them.

What a packet I have made of it! and yet, I am strongly
tempted to add another that I received, this morning,

from my dear brother. He is going to New-Orleans—
writes in good spirits. But there is something in it,
which I cannot put in your way. I am rather alarmed,
too, about him; and shall go on, I think, to Charleston.

Adieu.