s that perhaps I might go
mad, that perhaps I am mad, that all this is a deception, the
outcome of my poor brain. I don't know what to think.

I found Gabriel on the Common just before I reached the Cottage. I
thought he was writing; he was lying at full length on the heather.
I stood still within a few yards of him, and presently he looked up,
his dear face flushed.

"Emilia!" he cried, "I want you more than ever I did! Sit here by
me."

And when I had sat down a little way from him, away from him just
because I so longed to sit next, he drew himself up to me and took
my glad hand.

I asked him what was amiss, saying I did not like his looks and
nervous ways.

"Where are your gay spirits?" said I; "I hardly know my child, he
has grown so sober."

"Yes," he replied. "I hardly know myself. I think I am not well. The
poem is dead,--not a throb of the pulse. Emilia! you must cure me!"

"Dear," said I, "how shall that be?"

"Take me away! I am weary of all things. The summer is fledged; he
will take wing before we realise it. You must marry me soon, very
soon."

And I promised that I would,--on the 15th of July, as we presently
decided.

Surely, if I were not mad, I should be very joyful. I feel no joy,
only disbelief; I cannot believe, sore as I am with doubt and
sorrow, that in nineteen days all will be well, and I again full
mistress of that I fear to lose. Just at first, I was dizzy with
joy, and thought my misgivings had been very vain and foolish; but
then it occurred to me that Gabriel was perhaps impelled to this
sudden decision by the dawning consciousness of his infidelity, and
hoped--by marrying me at once--to check the further growth of his
fancy.

If this be so, he is wise; for that it is a passing fancy I am
certain. I should not marry him if I thought otherwise.

But it is very sad; I am so sorry for us all.

_June 30th._--It must be late; the chimes have just told three
quarters, it must be a quarter to three. I was in bed,--I am very
much troubled. I think I had better write a little, lest I lose my
self-possession; that would be fatal. Constance and I returned
to-day from London; we had been there to get my things. I took her
with me because I feared to leave her alone with Gabriel; it seemed
unwise. Besides, I could not leave them; I am indeed intolerably
jealous; I never leave them now for the fraction of a minute. I
cannot, it is too cruel pain; and I am grown such a coward, I cann