to Mrs. Sitwell

[Edinburgh, November 12, 1875.]

MY DEAR FRIEND,—Since I got your letter I have been able to do a little more work, and I have been much better contented with myself; but I can’t get away, that is absolutely prevented by the state of my purse and my debts, which, I may say, are red like crimson.  I don’t know how I am to clear my hands of them, nor when, not before Christmas anyway.  Yesterday I was twenty-five; so please wish me many happy returns—directly.  This one was not unhappy anyway.  I have got back a good deal into my old random, little-thought way of life, and do not care whether I read, write, speak, or walk, so long as I do something.  I have a great delight in this wheel-skating; I have made great advance in it of late, can do a good many amusing things (I mean amusing in my sense—amusing to do).  You know, I lose all my forenoons at Court!  So it is, but the time passes; it is a great pleasure to sit and hear cases argued or advised.  This is quite autobiographical, but I feel as if it was some time since we met, and I can tell you, I am glad to meet you again.  In every way, you see, but that of work the world goes well with me.  My health is better than ever it was before; I get on without any jar, nay, as if there never had been a jar, with my parents.  If it weren’t about that work, I’d be happy.  But the fact is, I don’t think—the fact is, I’m going to trust in Providence about work.  If I could get one or two pieces I hate out of my way all would be well, I think; but these obstacles disgust me, and as I know I ought to do them first, I don’t do anything.  I must finish this off, or I’ll just lose another day.  I’ll try to write again soon.—Ever your faithful friend,

R. L. S.