mean I never would unknow anything ... even were it the taste of the apples by the Dead sea—­and this must be accepted like the rest.  In the meantime your letter comes—­and if I could seem to be very unhappy after reading it ... why it would be ‘all pretence’ on my part, believe me.  Can you care for me so much ... you?  Then that is light enough to account for all the shadows, and to make them almost unregarded—­the shadows of the life behind.  Moreover dear Occy is somewhat better—­with a pulse only at ninety:  and the doctors declare that visitors may come to the house without any manner of danger.  Or I should not trust to your theories—­no, indeed:  it was not that I expected you to be afraid, but that I was afraid—­and if I am not ashamed for that, why at least I am, for being lache about Wednesday, when you thought of hurrying back from Paris only for it!  You could think that!—­You can care for me so much!—­(I come to it again!) When I hold some words to my eyes ... such as these in this letter ...  I can see nothing beyond them ... no evil, no want.  There is no evil and no want.  Am I wrong in the decision about Italy?  Could I do otherwise?  I had courage and to spare—­but the question, you see, did not regard myself wholly.  For the rest, the ‘unforbidden country’ lies within these four walls.  Madeira was proposed in vain—­and any part of England would be as objectionable as Italy, and not more advantageous to me than Wimpole Street.  To take courage and be cheerful, as you say, is left as an alternative—­and (the winter may be mild!) to fall into the hands of God rather than of man:  and I shall be here for your November, remember.

And now that you are not well, will you take care? and not come on Wednesday unless you are better? and never again bring me wet flowers, which probably did all the harm on Thursday?  I was afraid for you then, though I said nothing.  May God bless you.

Ever yours I am—­your own.

Ninety is not a high pulse ... for a fever of this kind—­is it? and the heat diminishes, and his spirits are better—­and we are all much easier ... have been both to-day and yesterday indeed.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Tuesday Morning,
[Post-mark, October 14, 1845.]

Be sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen for the best in the end.  It is hard to bear now—­but you have to bear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing you—­will be well this one winter if you can, and then—­since I am not selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me,—­I desire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours and with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, YOU—­and no hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment’s care or fear; but that one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised