And when once, in the case of the one dearest to me; when just at the last he was involved in the same grief, and I attempted to make over my advantages to him; (it could be no sacrifice, you know—­I did not want the money, and could buy nothing with it so good as his happiness,—­) why then, my hands were seized and tied—­and then and there, in the midst of the trouble, came the end of all!  I tell you all this, just to make you understand a little.  Did I not tell you before?  But there is no danger at present—­and why ruffle this present with disquieting thoughts?  Why not leave that future to itself?  For me, I sit in the track of the avalanche quite calmly ... so calmly as to surprise myself at intervals—­and yet I know the reason of the calmness well.

For Mr. Kenyon—­dear Mr. Kenyon—­he will speak the softest of words, if any—­only he will think privately that you are foolish and that I am ungenerous, but I will not say so any more now, so as to teaze you.

There is another thing, of more consequence than his thoughts, which is often in my mind to ask you of—­but there will be time for such questions—­let us leave the winter to its own peace.  If I should be ill again you will be reasonable and we both must submit to God’s necessity.  Not, you know, that I have the least intention of being ill, if I can help it—­and in the case of a tolerably mild winter, and with all this strength to use, there are probabilities for me—­and then I have sunshine from you, which is better than Pisa’s.

And what more would you say?  Do I not hear and understand!  It seems to me that I do both, or why all this wonder and gratitude?  If the devotion of the remainder of my life could prove that I hear, ... would it be proof enough?  Proof enough perhaps—­but not gift enough.

May God bless you always.

I have put some of the hair into a little locket which was given to me when I was a child by my favourite uncle, Papa’s only brother, who used to tell me that he loved me better than my own father did, and was jealous when I was not glad.  It is through him in part, that I am richer than my sisters—­through him and his mother—­and a great grief it was and trial, when he died a few years ago in Jamaica, proving by his last act that I was unforgotten.  And now I remember how he once said to me:  ’Do you beware of ever loving!—­If you do, you will not do it half:  it will be for life and death.’

So I put the hair into his locket, which I wear habitually, and which never had hair before—­the natural use of it being for perfume:—­and this is the best perfume for all hours, besides the completing of a prophecy.

Your

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, December 15, 1845.]

Every word you write goes to my heart and lives there:  let us live so, and die so, if God will.  I trust many years hence to begin telling you what I feel now;—­that the beam of the light will have reached you!—­meantime it is here.  Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest, dearest.