of lotus-eating—­and, besides, of sitting too long in the sun.  Yet ‘idle’ may not be the word! silent I have been, through too many thoughts to speak just that!—­As to writing letters and reading manuscripts’ filling all my time, why I must lack ’vital energy’ indeed—­you do not mean seriously to fancy such a thing of me!  For the rest....  Tell me—­Is it your opinion that when the apostle Paul saw the unspeakable things, being snatched up into the third Heavens ’whether in the body or out of the body he could not tell,’—­is it your opinion that, all the week after, he worked particularly hard at the tent-making?  For my part, I doubt it.

I would not speak profanely or extravagantly—­it is not the best way to thank God.  But to say only that I was in the desert and that I am among the palm-trees, is to say nothing ... because it is easy to understand how, after walking straight on ... on ... furlong after furlong ... dreary day after dreary day, ... one may come to the end of the sand and within sight of the fountain:—­there is nothing miraculous in that, you know!

Yet even in that case, to doubt whether it may not all be mirage, would be the natural first thought, the recurring dream-fear! now would it not?  And you can reproach me for my thoughts, as if they were unnatural!

Never mind about the third act—­the advantage is that you will not tire yourself perhaps the next week.  What gladness it is that you should really seem better, and how much better that is than even ‘Luria.’

Mrs. Jameson came to-day—­but I will tell you.

May God bless you now and always.

Your

E.B.B.

E.B.B. to R.B.

Tuesday Evening.
[Post-mark, December 17, 1845.]

Henrietta had a note from Mr. Kenyon to the effect that he was ’coming to see Ba’ to-day if in any way he found it possible.  Now he has not come—­and the inference is that he will come to-morrow—­in which case you will be convicted of not wishing to be with him perhaps.  So ... would it not be advisable for you to call at his door for a moment—­and before you come here?  Think of it.  You know it would not do to vex him—­would it?

Your

E.B.B.

R.B. to E.B.B.

Friday Morning.
[Post-mark, December 19, 1845.]

I ought to have written yesterday:  so to-day when I need a letter and get none, there is my own fault besides, and the less consolation.  A letter from you would light up this sad day.  Shall I fancy how, if a letter lay there where I look, rain might fall and winds blow while I listened to you, long after the words had been laid to heart?  But here you are in your place—­with me who am your own—­your own—­and so the rhyme joins on,

She shall speak to me in places lone
With a low and holy tone—­
Ay:  when I have lit my lamp at night
She shall be present with my sprite: 
And I will say, whate’er it be,
Every word she telleth me!