Praying for your dear eyes to remain open, I realize suddenly how much hope still remains in me, where I thought none was left.  Even your illness I take as a good omen; and the thought of you weak as a child and somewhat like one in your present state with no brain for deep thinking, comes to my heart to be cherished endlessly:  there you lie, Beloved, brought home to my imagination as never since the day we parted.  And the thought comes to the rescue of my helpless longing—­that it is as little children that men get brought into the kingdom of Heaven.  Let that be the medicine and outcome of your sickness, my own Beloved!  I hold my breath with hope that I shall have word of you when your hand has strength again to write.  For I know that in sleepless nights and in pain you will be unable not to think of me.  If you made resolutions against that when you were well, they will go now that you are laid weak; and so some power will come back to me, and my heart will never be asleep for thinking that yours lies awake wanting it:—­nor ever be at rest for devising ways by which to be at the service of your conscious longing.

Ah, my own one Beloved, whom I have loved so openly and so secretly, if you were as I think some other men are, I could believe that I had given you so much of my love that you had tired of me because I had made no favor of it but had let you see that I was your faithful subject and servant till death:  so that after twenty years you, chancing upon an empty day in your life, might come back and find me still yours;—­as to-morrow, if you came, you would.

My pride died when I saw love looking out of your eyes at me; and it has not come back to me now that I see you no more.  I have no wish that it should.  In all ways possible I would wish to be as I was when you loved me; and seek to change nothing except as you bid me.

LETTER LXII.

So I have seen you, Beloved, again, after fearing that I never should.  A day’s absence from home has given me this great fortune.

The pain of it was less than it might have been, since our looks did not meet.  To have seen your eyes shut out their recognition of me would have hurt me too much:  I must have cried out against such a judgment.  But you passed by the window without knowing, your face not raised:  so little changed, yet you have been ill.  Arthur tells me everything:  he knows I must have any word of you that goes begging.

Oh, I hope you are altogether better, happier!  An illness helps some people:  the worst of their sorrow goes with the health that breaks down under it; and they come out purged into a clearer air, and are made whole for a fresh trial of life.

I hear that you are going quite away; and my eyes bless this chance to have embraced you once again.  Your face is the kindest I have ever seen:  even your silence, while I looked at you, seemed a grace instead of a cruelty.  What kindness, I say to myself, even if it be mistaken kindness, must have sealed those dear lips not to tell me of my unworth!