s of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in
your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the
darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within
the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great
Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in
her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?
O Constance, I would give all--my very eyesight--to feel an arm
about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest. We women are poor
wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.

Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.

Good night, dearest.
E

LETTER X.

GRAYSMILL, September 20th.

Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day of
days to me. How could I live without you? I am purely selfish when I
wish you perfect joy and a long golden life; it is almost like
praying for fine weather! All the strings of my heart go towards
you, Constance Norris, and are knotted in your bosom. Be happy, be
well, my darling, else I suffer. We shall not be apart on your next
birthday, I think. I have evolved a marvellous scheme. Your mother
is still young, and a very handsome woman; why don't you marry her?
Really, it's a plan worth attempting; couldn't you persuade one of
your numerous admirers to transfer his affections? Then, Constantia
mia, we two could live together. We should mostly live abroad,
following the sunshine; but for a part of the year we should stay
here in England. Don't wrinkle up your dear nose! You will be every
bit as much in love with the country as I am, when once you know it
well. I wish I could show it you now; the woods are changing colour,
'tis a glowing world, and your lungs have never tasted such air as
blows on Graysmill Heath. You would be very happy in the woods in
summer; you could lie down and bring your face on a level with the
flowers, and I should sit by and love you. There would be little
sunbeams piercing the roof of leaves and twinkling about us, and
just enough breeze to clear your brow of curls. O Constance! Why are
we so f