I sat up from half-past one to a quarter to five to see our shadow go over heaven.  I didn’t see much, the sky was too piebald:  but I was not disappointed, as I had never watched the darkness into dawn like that before:  and it was interesting to hear all the persons awaking:—­cocks at half-past four, frogs immediately after, then pheasants and various others following.  I was cuddled close up against my window, throned in a big arm-chair with many pillows, a spirit-lamp, cocoa, bread and butter, and buns; so I fared well.  Just after the pheasants and the first querulous fidgetings of hungry blackbirds comes a soft pattering along the path below:  and Benjy, secretive and important, is fussing his way to the shrubbery, when instinct or real sentiment prompts him to look up at my window; he gives a whimper and a wag, and goes on.  I try to persuade myself that he didn’t see me, and that he does this, other mornings, when I am not thus perversely bolstered up in rebellion, and peering through blinds at wrong hours.  Isn’t there something pathetic in the very idea that a dog may have a behind-your-back attachment of that sort?—­that every morning he looks up at an unresponsive blank, and wags, and goes by?

I heard him very happy in the shrubs a moment after:  he and a pheasant, I fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries.  And he comes in for breakfast, three hours later, looking positively fresh, and wants to know why I am yawning.

Most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth.  It is old Nan-nan’s joke:  she only sends up yours so, and pretends it is Benjy’s own clever selection.  I pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks he is doing something wonderful.  The other morning I was—­well, Benjy hears splashing:  and tires of waiting—­or his mouth waters.  An extra can of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his treasure (mine, I mean), and retires saying nothing.  The consequence is, when I open three minutes after his scratch, I find you all ungummed and swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye but mine could have read it.  Benjy’s shame when I showed him what he had done was wonderful.

How it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!—­that I can helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which I never took in when I was merely young and frivolous.  One must have touched a grave side of life before one can take in that Heaven is not opposed to laughter.

My eye has just caught back at what I have written; and the “little death” runs through me, just because I wrote “grave side.”  It shouldn’t, but loving has made me superstitious:  the happiness seems too great; how can it go on?  I keep thinking—­this is not life:  you are too much for me, my dearest!

Oh, my Beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day:  this morning!  Ride over; I am willing it.  My own dearest, you must come.  If you don’t, what shall I believe?  That Love cannot outdo space:  that when you are away I cannot reach you by willing.  But I can:  come to me!  You shall see my arms open to you as never before.  What is it?—­you must be coming.  I have more love in me after all than I knew.