Wise guardian-angels smile at each other, gently and graciously, when a lover is commanded to withdraw and to reappear in the character of a friend.  An incoming tide may seem for a while to pause; but by and by we look and the rock is covered.  Browning very dutifully submitted and became a literary counsellor and comrade.  The first stadium in the progress of his fortunes opened in January and closed before the end of May; the second closed at the end of August.  To a friend Miss Barrett, assured that he never could be more, might well be generous; visits were permitted, and it was left to Browning to fix the days; the postal shuttle threw swift and swifter threads between New Cross, Hatcham, and 50 Wimpole Street.  The verse of Tennyson, the novels of George Sand were discussed; her translations from the Greek were considered; his manuscript poems were left for her corrections; but transcription must not weary him into headaches; she would herself by and by act as an amanuensis.  Each of the correspondents could not rest happy until the other had been proved to be in every intellectual and moral quality the superior.  Browning’s praise could not be withheld; it seemed to his friend—­and she wrote always with crystalline sincerity—­to be an illusion which humbled her.  Glad memories of Italy, sad memories of England and the invalid life were exchanged; there is nothing that she can teach him—­she declares—­except grief.  And yet to him the day of his visit is his light through the dark week.  He is like an Eastern Jew who creeps through alleys in the meanest garb, destitute to all wayfarers’ eyes, who yet possesses a hidden palace-hall of marble and gold.  Even in matters ecclesiastical, the footsteps of the two friends had moved with one consent; each of them preferred a chapel to a church; each was Puritan in a love of simplicity in the things of religion; each disowned the Puritan narrowness, and the grey aridity of certain schools of dissent.  On June 14—­with the warranty of her published poem which had told of flowers sent in a letter—­Browning encloses in his envelope a yellow rose; and again and again summer flowers arrive bringing colour and sweetness into the dim city room.  Once Miss Barrett can report that she has been out of doors, and with no fainting-fit, yet unable to venture in the carriage as far as the Park; still her bodily strength is no better than that of a tired bird; she is moreover, years older than her friend (the difference was in fact that between thirty-nine and thirty-three); and the thunder of a July storm has shaken her nerves.  There is some thought of her seeking health as far off as Malta or even Alexandria; but her father will jestingly have it that there is nothing wrong with her except “obstinacy and dry toast.”  Thus cordially, gladly, sadly, and always with quick leapings of the indomitable flame of the spirit, these letters of friend to friend run on during the midsummer days.  Browning was willing and happy to wait; a confidence possessed him that in the end he would be known fully and aright.