And now, since I began to write this, there is a new evil and anxiety—­a worse anxiety than any—­for one of my brothers is ill; had been unwell for some days and we thought nothing of it, till to-day Saturday:  and the doctors call it a fever of the typhoid character ... not typhus yet ... but we are very uneasy.  You must not come on Wednesday if an infectious fever be in the house—­that must be out of the question.  May God bless you—­I am quite heavy-hearted to-day, but never less yours,

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Sunday.
[Post-mark, October 13, 1845].

These are bad news, dearest—­all bad, except the enduring comfort of your regard; the illness of your brother is worst ... that would stay you, and is the first proper obstacle.  I shall not attempt to speak and prove my feelings,—­you know what even Flush is to me through you:  I wait in anxiety for the next account.

If after all you do not go to Pisa; why, we must be cheerful and wise, and take courage and hope.  I cannot but see with your eyes and from your place, you know,—­and will let this all be one surprizing and deplorable mistake of mere love and care ... but no such another mistake ought to be suffered, if you escape the effects of this.  I will not cease to believe in a better event, till the very last, however, and it is a deep satisfaction that all has been made plain and straight up to this strange and sad interposition like a bar.  You have done your part, at least—­with all that forethought and counsel from friends and adequate judges of the case—­so, if the bar will not move, you will consider—­will you not, dearest?—­where one may best encamp in the unforbidden country, and wait the spring and fine weather.  Would it be advisable to go where Mr. Kenyon suggested, or elsewhere?  Oh, these vain wishes ... the will here, and no means!

My life is bound up with yours—­my own, first and last love.  What wonder if I feared to tire you—­I who, knowing you as I do, admiring what is so admirable (let me speak), loving what must needs be loved, fain to learn what you only can teach; proud of so much, happy in so much of you; I, who, for all this, neither come to admire, nor feel proud, nor be taught,—­but only, only to live with you and be by you—­that is love—­for I know the rest, as I say.  I know those qualities are in you ... but at them I could get in so many ways....  I have your books, here are my letters you give me; you would answer my questions were I in Pisa—­well, and it all would amount to nothing, infinitely much as I know it is; to nothing if I could not sit by you and see you....  I can stop at that, but not before.  And it seems strange to me how little ... less than little I have laid open of my feelings, the nature of them to you—­I smile to think how if all this while I had been acting with the profoundest policy in intention, so as to pledge myself to nothing I could not afterwards perform with the most perfect ease and security, I should have done not much unlike what I have done—­to be sure, one word includes many or all ... but I have not said ... what I will not even now say ... you will know—­in God’s time to which I trust.