never be able to live here!  Believe me; you will soon see me back.  Good people, mind you, one and all, according to their lights; God-fearing, law-abiding, nothing questioning, one and all.  I shall soon expect to see the earth stand still and roll backwards.  Yes; there they trot upon life’s highway, chained together, dragging each other along; not one of them dares stop to pick a flower lest the others should tread on his fingers and toes.  And they are so swaddled up in customs and conventions, baby-learned forms of speech and bearing, that there is nothing to be seen of the real man and woman; indeed, I cannot say that I have yet found a mummy worth unrolling.  Yesterday a kind of cousin brought her children to see me.  There was a small girl who had already learned, poor wretch, to play her little part, to quell the impulses of her young heart, to tune her tongue to a given pitch.  She sat on the edge of her chair, feigning indifference to everything, from Chinese chessmen to gingerbread-nuts; it was a positive relief to me when her younger brother, who has not yet learned the most necessary falsehoods, yelled lustily and smashed a tea-cup.  I should have been glad to do both myself.

I must unpack my books.  A Broadwood is on its way from London; in a few days I hope to have made unto myself some kind of oasis in this desert.  I have taken possession of the two rooms on the topmost floor that were my father’s nurseries; and there, with my things about me, I mean to be happy against all odds.

Good-bye for to-day.  Do you remember this morning a fortnight ago?  It might be last year—­it might be yesterday!  How strange is the beat of Time’s wings!

Your Emilia.

LETTER IV.

Graysmill, August 2d.

Now that’s the kind of letter I like to have!  Only my heart sickens for thee.  At each word I hear your voice; at every pause, the little ripples that run away with it so sweetly.  I cannot even find it in me to scold you for your many follies.  Young woman, I don’t approve of you, but you are the sweetest creature that ever walked this earth.  Thanks be where thanks are due that I am a woman; you would have been my bane had I been born a man!

But, to be serious, I have been thinking things out; you must leave your mother, Constance, and come to me.  You have lived this kind of life long enough; and—­believe me, my dearest—­you are not strong enough to bear it longer unharmed.

Shall I be a little cruel to you?  Well, my own, I think that if you looked into your heart, searchingly and truly, as you always declare you know not how, you would find that it is more cowardice than duty binds you to Mrs. Rayner.  She bore you, you say, she brought you up—­Good Lord! and how!  If you were not a pearl among women, what would you be by this time?  No, you know as well as I do that it is cowardice, not duty, prevents you from taking this step.