It befell that there stood in hall a bold baron, and out he spake to one of his serfs ...  ’Come thou; and take this baton of my baronie, and give me instead thereof that sprig of hawthorn thou holdest in thine hand.’  Now the hawthorn-bough was no larger a thing than might be carried by a wood-pigeon to the nest, when she flieth low, and the baronial baton was covered with fine gold, and the serf, turning it in his hands, marvelled greatly.

And he answered and said, ’Let not my lord be in haste, nor jest with his servant.  Is it verily his will that I should keep his golden baton?  Let him speak again—­lest it repent him of his gift.’

And the baron spake again that it was his will.  ’And I’—­he said once again—­’shall it be lawful for me to keep this sprig of hawthorn, and will it not repent thee of thy gift?’

Then all the servants who stood in hall, laughed, and the serf’s hands trembled till they dropped the baton into the rushes, knowing that his lord did but jest....

Which mine did not.  Only, de te fabula narratur up to a point.

And I have your letter.  ‘What did I expect?’ Why I expected just that, a letter in turn.  Also I am graciously pleased (yes, and very much pleased!) to ‘let you write to-morrow.’  How you spoil me with goodness, which makes one ‘insolent’ as I was saying, now and then.

The worst is, that I write ‘too kind’ letters—­I!—­and what does that criticism mean, pray?  It reminds me, at least, of ... now I will tell you what it reminds me of.

A few days ago Henrietta said to me that she was quite uncomfortable.  She had written to somebody a not kind enough letter, she thought, and it might be taken ill.  ’Are you ever uncomfortable, Ba, after you have sent letters to the post?’ she asked me.

‘Yes,’ I said, ’sometimes, but from a reason just the very reverse of your reason, my letters, when they get into the post, seem too kind,—­rather.’  And my sisters laughed ... laughed.

But if you think so beside, I must seriously set to work, you see, to correct that flagrant fault, and shall do better in time dis faventibus, though it will be difficult.

Mr. Kenyon’s dinner is a riddle which I cannot read. You are invited to meet Miss Thomson and Mr. Bayley and ‘no one else.’  George is invited to meet Mr. Browning and Mr. Procter and ’no one else’—­just those words.  The ‘absolu’ (do you remember Balzac’s beautiful story?) is just you and ‘no one else,’ the other elements being mere uncertainties, shifting while one looks for them.

Am I not writing nonsense to-night?  I am not ‘too wise’ in any case, which is some comfort.  It puts one in spirits to hear of your being ‘well,’ ever and ever dearest.  Keep so for me.  May God bless you hour by hour.  In every one of mine I am your own

BA.