brought him back,—­who knows if that be a deed of love?—­into this hard world once more.  But I could not let him go, unless I went with him; and I do hope that the cruel law of my life will, at least, not oblige us to be separated.  When I saw his first returning smile,—­that poor, wan, feeble smile!—­and more than four weeks we watched him night and day, before we saw it,—­new resolution dawned in my heart.  I resolved to live, day by day, hour by hour, for his dear sake.  So, if he is only treasure lent,—­if he too must go, as sweet Waldo, Pickie, Hermann, did,—­as all my children do!—­I shall at least have these days and hours with him.”

How intolerable was this last blow to one stretched so long on the rack, is plain from Margaret’s letters.  “I shall never again,” she writes, “be perfectly, be religiously generous, so terribly do I need for myself the love I have given to other sufferers.  When you read this, I hope your heart will be happy; for I still like to know that others are happy,—­it consoles me.”  Again her agony wrung from her these bitter words,—­the bitterest she ever uttered,—­words of transient madness, yet most characteristic:—­“Oh God! help me, is all my cry.  Yet I have little faith in the Paternal love I need, so ruthless or so negligent seems the government of this earth.  I feel calm, yet sternly, towards Fate.  This last plot against me has been so cruelly, cunningly wrought, that I shall never acquiesce.  I submit, because useless resistance is degrading, but I demand an explanation.  I see that it is probable I shall never receive one, while I live here, and suppose I can bear the rest of the suspense, since I have comprehended all its difficulties in the first moments.  Meanwhile, I live day by day, though not on manna.”  But now comes a sweeter, gentler strain:—­“I have been the object of great love from the noble and the humble; I have felt it towards both.  Yet I am tired out,—­tired of thinking and hoping,—­tired of seeing men err and bleed.  I take interest in some plans,—­Socialism for instance,—­but the interest is shallow as the plans.  These are needed, are even good; but man will still blunder and weep, as he has done for so many thousand years.  Coward and footsore, gladly would I creep into some green recess, where I might see a few not unfriendly faces, and where not more wretches should come than I could relieve.  Yes!  I am weary, and faith soars and sings no more.  Nothing good of me is left except at the bottom of the heart, a melting tenderness:—­’She loves much.’”

CALM AFTER STORM.

Morning rainbows usher in tempests, and certainly youth’s romantic visions had prefigured a stormy day of life for Margaret.  But there was yet to be a serene and glowing hour before the sun went down.  Angelo grew strong and lively once more; rest and peace restored her elasticity of spirit, and extracts from various letters will show in what tranquil blessedness, the autumn and winter glided by.  After a few weeks’ residence at Rieti, the happy three journeyed on, by way of Perugia, to Florence, where they arrived at the end of September.  Thence, Margaret writes:—­