...  How all considerate you are, you that are the kind, kind one!  The post arrangement I will remember—­to-day, for instance, will this reach you at 8?  I shall be with you then, in thought.  ’Forget you!’—­What does that mean, dearest?

And I might have stayed longer and you let me go.  What does that mean, also tell me?  Why, I make up my mind to go, always, like a man, and praise myself as I get through it—­as when one plunges into the cold water—­ONLY ... ah, that too is no more a merit than any other thing I do ... there is the reward, the last and best!  Or is it the ‘lure’?

I would not be ashamed of my soul if it might be shown you,—­it is wholly grateful, conscious of you.

But another time, do not let me wrong myself so!  Say, ’one minute more.’

On Monday?—­I am much better—­and, having got free from an engagement for Saturday, shall stay quietly here and think the post never intending to come—­for you will not let me wait longer?

Shall I dare write down a grievance of my heart, and not offend you?  Yes, trusting in the right of my love—­you tell me, sweet, here in the letter, ’I do not look so well’—­and sometimes, I ‘look better’ ... how do you know?  When I first saw you—­I saw your eyes—­since then, you, it should appear, see mine—­but I only know yours are there, and have to use that memory as if one carried dried flowers about when fairly inside the garden-enclosure.  And while I resolve, and hesitate, and resolve again to complain of this—­(kissing your foot ... not boldly complaining, nor rudely)—­while I have this on my mind, on my heart, ever since that May morning ... can it be?

—­No, nothing can be wrong now—­you will never call me ‘kind’ again, in that sense, you promise!  Nor think ‘bitterly’ of my kindness, that word!

Shall I see you on Monday?

God bless you my dearest—­I see her now—­and here and now the eyes open, wide enough, and I will kiss them—­how gratefully!

Your own

R.B.

[Footnote 1:  Envelope endorsed by E.B.B. ‘hair.’]

E.B.B. to R.B.

Friday.
[Post-mark, December 1, 1845.]

It comes at eight o’clock—­the post says eight ... I say nearer half past eight ... it comes—­and I thank you, thank you, as I can.  Do you remember the purple lock of a king on which hung the fate of a city? I do!  And I need not in conscience—­because this one here did not come to me by treason—­’ego et rex meus,’ on the contrary, do fairly give and take.