I tell you so much, my ever dear friend, that you may see the manner of man I have had to do with, and the sort of attachment which for nearly two years has been drawing and winning me.  I know better than any in the world, indeed, what Mr. Kenyon once unconsciously said before me—­that ‘Robert Browning is great in everything.’  Then, when you think how this element of an affection so pure and persistent, cast into my dreary life, must have acted on it—­how little by little I was drawn into the persuasion that something was left, and that still I could do something to the happiness of another—­and he what he was, for I have deprived myself of the privilege of praising him—­then it seemed worth while to take up with that unusual energy (for me!), expended in vain last year, the advice of the physicians that I should go to a warm climate for the winter.  Then came the Pisa conflict of last year.  For years I had looked with a sort of indifferent expectation towards Italy, knowing and feeling that I should escape there the annual relapse, yet, with that laisser aller manner which had become a habit to me, unable to form a definite wish about it.  But last year, when all this happened to me, and I was better than usual in the summer, I wished to make the experiment—­to live the experiment out, and see whether there was hope for me or not hope.  Then came Dr. Chambers, with his encouraging opinion.  ’I wanted simply a warm climate and air,’ he said; ‘I might be well if I pleased.’  Followed what you know—­or do not precisely know—­the pain of it was acutely felt by me; for I never had doubted but that papa would catch at any human chance of restoring my health.  I was under the delusion always that the difficulty of making such trials lay in me, and not in him.  His manner of acting towards me last summer was one of the most painful griefs of my life, because it involved a disappointment in the affections.  My dear father is a very peculiar person.  He is naturally stern, and has exaggerated notions of authority, but these things go with high and noble qualities; and as for feeling, the water is under the rock, and I had faith.  Yes, and have it.  I admire such qualities as he has—­fortitude, integrity.  I loved him for his courage in adverse circumstances which were yet felt by him more literally than I could feel them.  Always he has had the greatest power over my heart, because I am of those weak women who reverence strong men.  By a word he might have bound me to him hand and foot.  Never has he spoken a gentle word to me or looked a kind look which has not made in me large results of gratitude, and throughout my illness the sound of his step on the stairs has had the power of quickening my pulse—­I have loved him so and love him.  Now if he had said last summer that he was reluctant for me to leave him—­if he had even allowed me to think by mistake that his affection for me was the motive of such reluctance—­I was ready to