of indefinite awkwardness simply proves it.  But success in the republic is different still.  I fear for them.  My uncle and his family are safe at Tunbridge Wells, my aunt longing to be able to get back again.  For those who are still nearer to me, I have no heart to speak of them, loving them as I do and must to the end, whatever that end may be; but my dearest sisters write often to me—­never let me miss their affection.  I am quite well again, and strong, and Robert and I go out after tea in a wandering walk to sit in the Loggia and look at the Perseus, or, better still, at the divine sunsets on the Arno, turning it to pure gold under the bridges.  After more than twenty months of marriage, we are happier than ever—­I may say we.  Italy will regenerate herself in all senses, I hope and believe.  In Florence we are very quiet, and the English fly in proportion.  N.B.—­Always first fly the majors and gallant captains, unless there’s a general.  How I should like to see dear Mr. Horne’s poem! He’s bold, at least—­yes, and has a great heart to be bold with.  A cloud has fallen on me some few weeks ago, in the illness and death of my dear friend Mr. Boyd,[177] but he did not suffer, and is not to be mourned by those without hope [sic].  Still, it has been a cloud.  May God bless you, my beloved friend.  Write soon, and of yourself, to your ever affectionate

BA.

My husband’s regards go to you, of course.

[Footnote 177:  Mr. Boyd died on May 10, 1848.]

To Miss Browning [Florence:  about June 1848.]

My dearest Sarianna,—­At last, you see, I give sign of life.  The love, I hope you believed in without sign or symbol; and even for the rest, Robert promised to answer for me like godfather or godmother, and bear the consequence of my sins....

We are a little uneasy just now as to whether you will be overjoyed or under joyed by our new scheme of taking an unfurnished apartment.  It would spoil all, for instance, if your dear mother seemed disappointed—­vexed—­in the least degree.  And I can understand how, to persons at a distance and of course unable to understand the whole circumstances of the case, the fact of an apartment taken and furnished may seem to involve some dreadful giving up for ever and ever of country and family—­which would be as dreadful to us as to you!  How could we give you up, do you think, when we love you more and more?  Oh no.  If Robert has succeeded in making clear the subject to you, you will all perceive, just as we know, that we have simply thus solved the problem of making our small income carry us to England, not only next summer, but many a summer after.  We should like to give every summer to dear England, and hide away from the cold only when it comes.  By our scheme we shall have saved money even at the end of the present year; while for afterward, here’s a residence—­that is, a_pied a terre_—­in Italy, all but free