Dear Mr. Kenyon has been here again, and talking so (in his kindness too) about the probabilities as to Pisa being against me ... about all depending ‘on one throw’ and the ‘dice being loaded’ &c. ... that I looked at him aghast as if he looked at the future through the folded curtain and was licensed to speak oracles:—­and ever since I have been out of spirits ... oh, out of spirits—­and must write myself back again, or try.  After all he may be wrong like another—­and I should tell you that he reasons altogether from the delay ... and that ’the cabins will therefore be taken’ and the ‘circular bills’ out of reach!  He said that one of his purposes in staying in town, was to ‘knout’ me every day—­didn’t he?

Well—­George will probably speak before he leaves town, which will be on Monday! and now that the hour approaches, I do feel as if the house stood upon gunpowder, and as if I held Guy Fawkes’s lantern in my right hand.  And no:  I shall not go.  The obstacles will not be those of Mr. Kenyon’s finding—­and what their precise character will be I do not see distinctly.  Only that they will be sufficient, and thrown by one hand just where the wheel should turn, ... that, I see—­and you will, in a few days.

Did you go to Moxon’s and settle the printing matter?  Tell me.  And what was the use of telling Mr. Kenyon that you were ‘quite well’ when you know you are not?  Will you say to me how you are, saying the truth? and also how your mother is?

To show the significance of the omission of those evening or rather night visits of Papa’s—­for they came sometimes at eleven, and sometimes at twelve—­I will tell you that he used to sit and talk in them, and then always kneel and pray with me and for me—­which I used of course to feel as a proof of very kind and affectionate sympathy on his part, and which has proportionably pained me in the withdrawing.  They were no ordinary visits, you observe, ... and he could not well throw me further from him than by ceasing to pay them—­the thing is quite expressively significant.  Not that I pretend to complain, nor to have reason to complain.  One should not be grateful for kindness, only while it lasts:  that would be a short-breathed gratitude.  I just tell you the fact, proving that it cannot be accidental.

Did you ever, ever tire me?  Indeed no—­you never did.  And do understand that I am not to be tired ‘in that way,’ though as Mr. Boyd said once of his daughter, one may be so ‘far too effeminate.’  No—­if I were put into a crowd I should be tired soon—­or, apart from the crowd, if you made me discourse orations De Corona ... concerning your bag even ...  I should be tired soon—­though peradventure not very much sooner than you who heard.  But on the smooth ground of quiet conversation (particularly when three people don’t talk at once as my brothers do ... to say the least!) I last for a long while:—­not to say that I have the pretension of being as good and inexhaustible a listener to your own speaking as you could find in the world.  So please not to accuse me of being tired again.  I can’t be tired, and won’t be tired, you see.