ing to me its love, that I have understood, too late, what it
was for you to be deprived of it. It seems to me as if I had never
sympathized with you as I ought, or tried to embellish and sustain
your life, as far as is possible, after such an irreparable wound.

It will be sad for me to leave Italy, uncertain of return. Yet when
I think of you, beloved mother; of brothers and sisters, and many
friends, I wish to come. Ossoli is perfectly willing. He leaves in
Rome a sister, whom he dearly loves. His aunt is dying now. He will
go among strangers; but to him, as to all the young Italians, America
seems the land of liberty. He hopes, too, that a new revolution will
favor return, after a number of years, and that then he may find
really a home in Italy. All this is dark;--we can judge only for the
present moment. The decision will rest with me, and I shall wait
till the last moment, as I always do, that I may have all the reasons
before me.

I thought, to-day, ah, if she could only be with us now! But who knows
how long this interval of peace will last? I have learned to
prize such, as the halcyon prelude to the storm. It is now about a
fortnight, since the police gave us leave to stay, and we feel safe
in our little apartment. We have no servant except the nurse, with
occasional aid from the porter's wife, and now live comfortably so,
tormented by no one, helping ourselves. In the evenings, we have a
little fire now;--the baby sits on his stool between us. He makes me
think how I sat on mine, in the chaise, between you and father. He is
exceedingly fond of flowers;--he has been enchanted, this evening, by
this splendid Gardenia, and these many crimson flowers that were given
me at Villa Correggi, where a friend took us in his carriage. It was a
luxury, this ride, as we have entirely renounced the use of a carriage
for ourselves. How enchanted you would have been with that villa! It
seems now as if, with the certainty of a very limited income, we could
be so happy! But I suppose, if we had it, one of us would die, or the
baby. Do not you die, my beloved mother;--let us together have some
halcyon moments, again, with God, with nature, with sweet childhood,
with the remembrance of pure trust and good intent; away from perfidy
and care, and the blight of noble designs.

Ossoli wishes you were here, almost as much as I. When there is
anything really lovely and tranquil, he often says, "Would not '_La
Madre_' like that?" He