r or tea waiting for me
always, on my return from solitary rambles. Everything right and good
for me, except only that they never put me through any trials to
harden me, or give me decision of character, or make me feel how much
they did for me.

But that error was a fearful one, and cost them and me, Heaven only
knows how much. And now, I walk to Strid, and Abbey, and everywhere,
with the ghosts of the past days haunting me, and other darker spirits
of sorrow and remorse and wonder. Black spirits among the gray, all
like a mist between me and the green woods. And I feel like a
caterpillar,--stung _just enough_. Foul weather and mist enough, of
quite a real kind besides. An hour's sunshine to-day, broken up
speedily, and now veiled utterly.

[Footnote 16: In 1837.]

* * * * *

HERNE HILL, LONDON,
_11th February, 1875_.

I have your sweet letter with news of Dr. John and his brother. I have
been working on the book to-day very hard, after much interruption; it
is two-thirds done now. So glad people are on tiptoe.

Paddocks are frogs, not toads in that grace.[17] And why should not
people smile? Do you think that God does not like smiling graces? He
only dislikes frowns. But you know when once habitual, the child would
be told on a cold day to say "Cold as paddocks;" and everybody would
know what was coming. Finally the deep under-meaning, that as the cold
hand is lifted, so also the cold heart, and yet accepted, makes it one
of the prettiest little hymns I know.

I cannot tell you how very apposite to my work these two feathers are.
I am just going to dwell on the exquisite result of the division into
successive leaves, by which nature obtains the glittering look to set
off her color; and you just send me two feathers which have it more in
perfection than any I ever saw, and I think are more vivid in color.

How those boys must tease you! but you will be rewarded in the world
that good Susies go to.

[Footnote 17: Herrick's. See "Fors Clavigera", Letter XLIII.]

* * * * *

HERNE HILL, _4th October_ (1875).

All your letter is delicious, but chiefest the last sentence where you
say you like your Chaucer so much.--And you need never fear touching
that wound of mine--It is never more--never less--without its pain. I
like you to lay your pure--gentle hand on it