“Cher pere Nilgoes.  S’il vous plait voulez vous me donne plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc que nous allons faire l’arbre de noel cette anne et les jeaux ferait mieux pour l’arbre de Noel.  Il ne faut pas dire a petite mere s’il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour a la St. Viearge est a l’enfant Jeuses et a Ste Joseph.  Adieu cher St. Nilgoes.”

I haven’t altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault I still carry about me.  How strange that little bit of invocation to the dear folk above sounds to me now!  My mother must have been teaching me things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one—­though that too has gone like water off my mind.  It was one of the troubles between her and my father:  the compact that I was to be brought up a Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am.

I must have been less than five when I penned this:  I was always a letter-writer, it seems.

It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be:  and to them I fear it is true.  That I have not truly ceased, “witness under my hand these presents,”—­or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an affidavit.

What were you like, Beloved, as a very small child?  Should I have loved you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would my love have passed safely through the “gallous young hound” period; and could I love you more now in any case, had I all your days treasured up in my heart, instead of less than a year of them?

How strangely much have seven miles kept our fates apart!  It seems uncharacteristic for this small world,—­where meetings come about so far above the dreams of average—­to have played us such a prank.

This must do for this once, Beloved; for behold me busy to-day:  with what, I shall not tell you.  I would like to put you to a test, as ladies did their knights of old, and hardly ever do now—­fearing, I suppose, lest the species should altogether fail them at the pinch.  I would like to see if you could come here and sit with me from beginning to end, with your eyes shut:  never once opening them.  I am not saying whether I think curiosity, or affection, would make the attempt too difficult.  But if you were sure you could, you might come here to-morrow—­a day otherwise interdicted.  Only know, having come, that if you open those dear cupboards of vision and set eyes on things not yet intended to be looked at, there will be confusion of tongues in this Tower we are building whose top is to reach heaven.  Will you come?  I don’t say “come”; I only want to know—­will you?

To-day my love flies low over the earth like a swallow before rain, and touching the tops of the flowers has culled you these.  Kiss them until they open:  they are full of my thoughts, as the world, to me, is full of you.