give up Pisa in a moment, and I told him as much.  Whatever my new impulses towards life were, my love for him (taken so) would have resisted all—­I loved him so dearly.  But his course was otherwise, quite otherwise, and I was wounded to the bottom of my heart—­cast off when I was ready to cling to him.  In the meanwhile, at my side was another; I was driven and I was drawn.  Then at last I said, ’If you like to let this winter decide it, you may.  I will allow of no promises nor engagement.  I cannot go to Italy, and I know, as nearly as a human creature can know any fact, that I shall be ill again through the influence of this English winter.  If I am, you will see plainer the foolishness of this persistence; if I am not, I will do what you please.’  And his answer was, ’If you are ill and keep your resolution of not marrying me under those circumstances, I will keep mine and love you till God shall take us both.’  This was in last autumn, and the winter came with its miraculous mildness, as you know, and I was saved as I dared not hope; my word therefore was claimed in the spring.  Now do you understand, and will you feel for me?  An application to my father was certainly the obvious course, if it had not been for his peculiar nature and my peculiar position.  But there is no speculation in the case; it is a matter of knowledge that if Robert had applied to him in the first instance he would have been forbidden the house without a moment’s scruple; and if in the last (as my sisters thought best as a respectable form), I should have been incapacitated from any after-exertion by the horrible scenes to which, as a thing of course, I should have been exposed.  Papa will not bear some subjects, it is a thing known; his peculiarity takes that ground to the largest.  Not one of his children will ever marry without a breach, which we all know, though he probably does not—­deceiving himself in a setting up of obstacles, whereas the real obstacle is in his own mind.  In my case there was, or would have been, a great deal of apparent reason to hold by; my health would have been motive enough—­ostensible motive.  I see that precisely as others may see it.  Indeed, if I were charged now with want of generosity for casting myself so, a dead burden, on the man I love, nothing of the sort could surprise me.  It was what occurred to myself, that thought was, and what occasioned a long struggle and months of agitation, and which nothing could have overcome but the very uncommon affection of a very uncommon person, reasoning out to me the great fact of love making its own level.  As to vanity and selfishness blinding me, certainly I may have made a mistake, and the future may prove it, but still more certainly I was not blinded so.  On the contrary, never have I been more humbled, and never less in danger of considering any personal pitiful advantage, than throughout this affair.  You, who are generous and a woman, will believe this of me, even if you do