Now forgive me, dearest of all, but I must teaze you just a little, and entreat you, if only for the love of me, to have medical advice and follow it without further delay.  I like to have recourse to these medical people quite as little as you can—­but I am persuaded that it is necessary—­that it is at least wise, for you to do so now, and, you see, you were ‘not quite so well’ again last night!  So will you, for me?  Would I not, if you wished it?  And on Wednesday, yes, on Wednesday, come—­that is, if coming on Wednesday should really be not bad for you, for you must do what is right and kind, and I doubt whether the omnibus-driving and the noises of every sort betwixt us, should not keep you away for a little while—­I trust you to do what is best for both of us.

And it is not best ... it is not good even, to talk about ’dying for me’ ... oh, I do beseech you never to use such words.  You make me feel as if I were choking.  Also it is nonsense—­because nobody puts out a candle for the light’s sake.

Write one line to me to-morrow—­literally so little—­just to say how you are.  I know by the writing here, what is.  Let me have the one line by the eight o’clock post to-morrow, Tuesday.

For the rest it may be my ‘goodness’ or my badness, but the world seems to have sunk away beneath my feet and to have left only you to look to and hold by.  Am I not to feel, then, any trembling of the hand? the least trembling?

May God bless both of us—­which is a double blessing for me notwithstanding my badness.

I trust you about Wednesday—­and if it should be wise and kind not to come quite so soon, we will take it out of other days and lose not one of them.  And as for anything ‘horrible’ being likely to happen, do not think of that either,—­there can be nothing horrible while you are not ill.  So be well—­try to be well—­use the means and, well or ill, let me have the one line to-morrow ...  Tuesday.  I send you the foolish letter I wrote to-day in answer to your too long one—­too long, was it not, as you felt?  And I, the writer of the foolish one, am twice-foolish, and push poor ‘Luria’ out of sight, and refuse to finish my notes on him till the harm he has done shall have passed away.  In my badness I bring false accusation, perhaps, against poor Luria.

So till Wednesday—­or as you shall fix otherwise.

Your

BA.

R.B. to E.B.B.

6-1/2 Tuesday Evening.

My dearest, your note reaches me only now, with an excuse from the postman.  The answer you expect, you shall have the only way possible.  I must make up a parcel so as to be able to knock and give it.  I shall be with you to-morrow, God willing—­being quite well.

Bless you ever—­

R.B. to E.B.B.

Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, February 19, 1846.]

My sweetest, best, dearest Ba I do love you less, much less already, and adore you more, more by so much more as I see of you, think of you—­I am yours just as much as those flowers; and you may pluck those flowers to pieces or put them in your breast; it is not because you so bless me now that you may not if you please one day—­you will stop me here; but it is the truth and I live in it.