Wednesday I am waiting for—­how waiting for!

After all, it seems probable that there was no intentional mischief in that jeweller’s management of the ring.  The divided gold must have been exposed to fire—­heated thoroughly, perhaps,—­and what became of the contents then!  Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of course.  My next act is just done—­that is, being done—­but, what I did not foresee, I cannot bring it, copied, by Wednesday, as my sister went this morning on a visit for the week.

On the matters, the others, I will not think, as you bid me,—­if I can help, at least.  But your kind, gentle, good sisters! and the provoking sorrow of the right meaning at bottom of the wrong doing—­wrong to itself and its plain purpose—­and meanwhile, the real tragedy and sacrifice of a life!

If you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will be disengaged on Wednesday evening, I shall be glad to go in that case.

But I have been writing, as I say, and will leave off this, for the better communing with you.  Don’t imagine I am unwell; I feel quite well, but a little tired, and the thought of you waits in such readiness!  So, may God bless you, beloved!

I am all your own

R.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Monday.
[Post-mark, December 16, 1845.]

Mr. Kenyon has not come—­he does not come so often, I think.  Did he know from you that you were to see me last Thursday?  If he did it might be as well, do you not think? to go to him next week.  Will it not seem frequent, otherwise?  But if you did not tell him of Thursday distinctly (I did not—­remember!), he might take the Wednesday’s visit to be the substitute for rather than the successor of Thursday’s:  and in that case, why not write a word to him yourself to propose dining with him as he suggested?  He really wishes to see you—­of that, I am sure.  But you will know what is best to do, and he may come here to-morrow perhaps, and ask a whole set of questions about you; so my right hand may forget its cunning for any good it does.  Only don’t send messages by me, please!

How happy I am with your letter to-night.

When I had sent away my last letter I began to remember, and could not help smiling to do so, that I had totally forgotten the great subject of my ‘fame,’ and the oath you administered about it—­totally!  Now how do you read that omen?  If I forget myself, who is to remember me, do you think?—­except you?—­which brings me where I would stay.  Yes—­’yours’ it must be, but you, it had better be!  But, to leave the vain superstitions, let me go on to assure you that I did mean to answer that part of your former letter, and do mean to behave well and be obedient.  Your wish would be enough, even if there could be likelihood without it of my doing nothing ever again.  Oh, certainly I have been idle—­it comes