have felt the
growth. I know it, as clearly as you do. But I know the secret of it as
you do not; and I know the limit of it, as you cannot. I cannot love you
more, precious one! Neither would I if I could! One heart-beat more in a
minute, and I should die! But all that you have so much loved and cared
for, dear, calling it intellectual growth and expansion in me, has been
only the clearing, refining, and stimulating of every faculty, every
sense, by my love for you. When I have said or written a word which has
pleased you thus, if there were any special fitness or eloquence in the
word, it was only because I sought after what would best carry my thought
to you, darling; what would be best frame, best setting, to keep the
flowers or the sky which I had to see alone,--to keep them till you could
see them too! Oh, dear one, do understand that there is nothing of me
except my heart and my love! While they were wonderingly, tremblingly,
rapturously growing within me, under the sweet warmth of your love, no
wonder I changed day by day. But, precious one, it is ended. The whole
solemn, steadfast womanhood within me recognizes it. Beloved master, in
one sense you can teach me no more! I am content. I desire nothing. One
moment of full consciousness of you, of life, of your love, is more than
all centuries of learning, all eternities of inspiration. I would rather
at this moment, dear, lay my cheek on your hand, and sit in my old place
by your knee, and feel myself the woman you have made me, than know all
that God knows, and make a universe!

"Beloved, do not say such things to me any more; and whenever you feel
such ambition and hope stirring in your heart, read over this little
verse, and be sure that your child knew what she said when she wrote
it:--

"The End of Harvest.

"O Love, who walkest slow among my sheaves,
Smiling at tint and shape, thy smile of peace,
But whispering of the next sweet year's increase,--
O tender Love, thy loving hope but grieves
My heart! I rue my harvest, if it leaves
Thee vainly waiting after harvests cease,
Like one who has been mocked by title lease
To barren fields.

Dear one, my word deceives
Thee never. Hearts one summer have. Their grain
'Is sown not that which shall be!'

Can new pain
Teach me of pain? Or any ecstasy
Be new, that I should speak its name again?
My darling, all there was or is of