For the sake of argument we occasionally took opposite sides, but, in fact, we were both agreed upon the principal point; namely, that although man enters the world against his will, he may surely choose the time and the manner of his exit.  That this is every one’s right we both believe, yet believe, also, that the right should be sparingly used.  For although suicide might almost be considered an act of duty on the part of those suffering from incurable disease, mental or physical, most of us, however useless and superfluous we may at times believe ourselves to be, have, willy-nilly, the fate of some fellow-creature bound up with our own; and it is surely an act of unpardonable cowardice to make our escape from a world of difficulties, leaving others to bear the burden of our faults.

But, really, I must put an end to this letter; I never wrote such a long one in my life, not even I, not even to you.  My friend left me as we approached Graysmill, saying that he dared not set foot on the confines of respectability.

That was Thursday, and I have not seen him since.

Good-bye, my dearest; I kiss your sweet eyes.

Emilia.

LETTER XV.

Graysmill, October 31st.

No, of course I have not said a word about it at the house; what an idea!  Why should I?  Good gracious me, they’d think me mad.  Besides, I am my own mistress, and am not answerable to anybody for my actions.  Not for the world would I speak of the Nortons to any of these people here.

Ida Seymour is a fixture, for the present, at least.  Her good offices leave me a great deal more liberty than I enjoyed during the first few months.  Apart from meal-times I give some two hours a day to my old ladies, and work hard the rest of the time.  I have finished “Prometheus,” and laid it aside to await revision; I am now sorting my mother’s papers, with a view to some day publishing a selection of them.  Perhaps.  But there is such a sacredness to me about all she has left behind, that I cannot yet bear the thought of sending anything that remains of her out into the cold world, to be misjudged and misprized.

How can you ask me what colour his eyes are?  When did you know me care for any one—­except mamma—­whose eyes were not blue?  His are very dark, and very beautiful.  I cannot think, by the way, why I ever told you that he might perhaps be considered plain.  I looked at him hard yesterday, and cannot think what possessed me to say such a thing; for he is certainly as far from plain as any man I ever set eyes on.  It’s really very strange that I did not see it at once.

You see, we have met again.  Five days passed, and I must admit that I found them dull.  To be quite sincere, I will also admit that I once walked towards Miltonhoe, and was disappointed not to meet him.  At last, on Wednesday morning, I received a note from him.  He writes a good hand, although not a firm one—­he makes two or three of his letters in two or three different ways.  I would send you the letter, only mine is sure to be heavy enough without enclosures.  It ran thus:—­