'O! Beloved as thou art!' In the last stanza, the
seventh line was, 'Oh, press it to thine own again.' Are not all these
better readings? (even to the 'Hath' for 'Has'.) There, I give them
you as you gave us Milton's hair. If I have mistaken in telling you,
you will understand and forgive.

I think I will ask my wife to say a word or two so I shall be sure
that you forgive. Now let my wife say the remainder. All I have
wished to do--know how little likely it was that I should succeed in
that--was to assure you of my pride and affectionate gratitude.--God
bless you ever,

R.B.

Dear friend, I will say; for I feel it must be something as good as
friendship that can forgive and understand this silence, so much like
the veriest human kind of ingratitude. When I look back and think--all
this time after that letter, and not a sign made--I wonder. Yet,
if you knew! First of all, we were silent because we waited for
information which you seemed to desire.... Then there were sadder
reasons. Poor _Aurora_, that you were so more than kind to (oh, how
can I think of it?), has been steeped in tears, and some of them of a
very bitter sort. Your letter was addressed to my husband, you knowing
by your delicate true instinct where your praise would give most
pleasure; but I believe Robert had not the heart to write when I felt
that I should not have the spirits to add a word in the proper key.
When we came here from Florence a few months ago to get repose and
cheerfulness from the sight of the mountains, we said to ourselves
that we would speak to you at ease--instead of which the word was
taken from our own mouth, and we have done little but sit by sick beds
and meditate on gastric fevers. So disturbed we have been--so sad! our
darling precious child the last victim. To see him lying still on his
golden curls, with cheeks too scarlet to suit the poor patient eyes,
looking so frightfully like an angel! It was very hard. But this is
over, I do thank God, and we are on the point of carrying back our
treasure with us to Florence to-morrow, quite recovered, if a little
thinner and weaker, and the young voice as merry as ever. You are
aware that that child I am more proud of than twenty _Auroras_, even
after Leigh Hunt has praised them. He is eight years old, has never
been '_crammed_', but reads English, Italian, French, German, and
plays the piano--then, is the sweetest child! sweeter than he looks.
When he was ill, he said to me, 'Y