e life, every minute worth all the years that went
before. But you must write that down, as Dr. Johnson said, in the first
page of your pocket-book, and never speak of it again. It's all too
good and too sacred to talk about--almost to think about. And I don't
believe in looking BACK, Howard--nor very much, I think, in looking
forward. I know that I wasted ever so much time and energy as a
girl--how long ago that seems!--in wishing I had done this and that;
but it's neither useful nor pleasant. Now we have got things to do.
There is plenty to do at Windlow for a little for you and me. We have
got to know everybody and understand everybody. And I think that when
the year is out, we must go back to Cambridge. I can't bear to think I
have stopped that. I am not going to hoard you, and cling round you.
You have got things to do for other people, young men in particular,
which no one else can do just like you. I am not a bit ambitious. I
don't want you to be M.P., LL.D., F.R.S., &c., &c., &c., but I do want
you to do things, and to help you to do things. I don't want to be a
sort of tea-table Egeria to the young men--I don't mean that--and I
don't wish to be an interesting and radiant object at dinner-tables;
but I am sure there is trouble I can save you, and I don't intend you
to have any worries except your own. I won't smudge my fingers over the
accounts, like that wretched Dora in David Copperfield. Understand
that, Howard; I won't be your girl-bride. I won't promise that I won't
wear spectacles and be dowdy--anything to be prosaic!"

"You may adorn yourself as you please," said Howard, "and of course,
dearest child, there are hundreds of things you can do for me. I am the
feeblest of managers; I live from hand to mouth; but I am not going to
submerge you either. If you won't be the girl-bride, you are not to be
the professional sunbeam either. You are to be just yourself, the one
real, sweet, and perfect thing in the world for me. Chaire
kecharitoenae--do you know what that means? It was the angel's opinion
long ago of a very simple mortal. We shall affect each other, sure
enough, as the days go on. Why what you have done for me already, I
dare hardly think--you have made a man out of a machine--but we won't
go about trying to revise each other; that will take care of itself. I
only want you as you are--the best thing in the world."

The last morning at Lydstone they were very silent; they took one long
walk together,