“Why did I go away?  Only to save you from the consequences of marrying a poor girl who was not fit to become your wife.  It almost broke my heart to leave you; for I had nothing to keep up my courage but the remembrance that I was going away for your sake.  I had to think of that, morning and night—­to think of it always, or I am afraid I should have faltered in my resolution, and have gone back to Pisa.  I longed so much at first to see you once more, only to tell you that Nanina was not heartless and ungrateful, and that you might pity her and think kindly of her, though you might love her no longer.

“Only to tell you that!  If I had been a lady I might have told it to you in a letter; but I had never learned to write, and I could not prevail on myself to get others to take the pen for me.  All I could do was to learn secretly how to write with my own hand.  It was long, long work; but the uppermost thought in my heart was always the thought of justifying myself to you, and that made me patient and persevering.  I learned, at last, to write so as not to be ashamed of myself, or to make you ashamed of me.  I began a letter—­my first letter to you—­but I heard of your marriage before it was done, and then I had to tear the paper up, and put the pen down again.

“I had no right to come between you and your wife, even with so little a thing as a letter; I had no right to do anything but hope and pray for your happiness.  Are you happy?  I am sure you ought to be; for how can your wife help loving you?

“It is very hard for me to explain why I have ventured on writing now, and yet I can’t think that I am doing wrong.  I heard a few days ago (for I have a friend at Pisa who keeps me informed, by my own desire, of all the pleasant changes in your life)—­I heard of your child being born; and I thought myself, after that, justified at last in writing to you.  No letter from me, at such a time as this, can rob your child’s mother of so much as a thought of yours that is due to her.  Thus, at least, it seems to me.  I wish so well to your child, that I cannot surely be doing wrong in writing these lines.

“I have said already what I wanted to say—­what I have been longing to say for a whole year past.  I have told you why I left Pisa; and have, perhaps, persuaded you that I have gone through some suffering, and borne some heart-aches for your sake.  Have I more to write?  Only a word or two, to tell you that I am earning my bread, as I always wished to earn it, quietly at home—­at least, at what I must call home now.  I am living with reputable people, and I want for nothing.  La Biondella has grown very much; she would hardly be obliged to get on your knee to kiss you now; and she can plait her dinner-mats faster and more neatly than ever.  Our old dog is with us, and has learned two new tricks; but you can’t be expected to remember him, although you were the only stranger I ever saw him take kindly to at first.