Oh, Wilful!—Am I to expect another birthday letter? If so (but two such birthdays can hardly come together), I will do my best to be grateful, and send you a mirth-day letter. Do you know that however differently-shaped you may regard yourself at present at Shacklewell, here at Florence you are a square? and that I am writing at present in one of your second stories at Mrs. Brown’s lodgings, who can only find me this half-sheet of paper to write upon? I should have thought better of you, considering you have the literary interest so much at heart. Your name is Sancta Maria Novella, and there is a church in a corner of you, which makes a figure in the opening of Boccaccio’s “Decameron.” So adieu, dear Sancta.—Ever yours, sick or merry,
