Yes; there are terrible costs in this world.  We get knowledge by losing what we hoped for, and liberty by losing what we loved.  But this world is a fragment—­or, rather, a segment—­and it will be rounded presently, to the completer satisfaction.  Not to doubt that is the greatest blessing it gives now.  Death is as vain as life; the common impression of it, as false and as absurd.  A mere change of circumstances.  What more?  And how near these spirits are, how conscious, how full of active energy and tender reminiscence and interest, who shall dare to doubt?  For myself, I do not doubt at all.  If I did, I should be sitting here inexpressibly sad—­for myself, not you....

Robert unites with me in affectionate sympathy, and Sarianna was here last night, talking feelingly about you.  You shall have Robert’s book when we get to England.  Think how much I think of you.

Your ever affectionate
BA.

Mr. Kenyon has been very ill, and is still in a state occasioning anxiety.  He is at the Isle of Wight.

* * * * *

At the end of June the Brownings came back to London, for what was, as it proved, Mrs. Browning’s last visit to England.  Mr. Kenyon had lent them his house in London, at 39 Devonshire Place, he himself being in the Isle of Wight; but a shadow was thrown over the whole of this visit by the serious and ultimately fatal illness of this dear friend.  It was partly in order to see him, and partly because Miss Arabel Barrett had been sent out of town by her father almost as soon as her sister reached Devonshire Place, that about the beginning of September they made an expedition to the Isle of Wight, staying first at Ventnor with Miss Barrett, and subsequently at West Cowes with Mr. Kenyon.  All the while Mrs. Browning was actively engaged in seeing ‘Aurora Leigh’ through the press, and the poem was published just about the time they left England.  The letters during this visit are few and mostly unimportant, but the following are of interest.

* * * * *

To Mrs. Jameson

39 Devonshire Place:  Friday morning [July-August 1856].

My dearest Mona Nina, my dear friend,—­I am so grieved, so humiliated.  If it is possible to forgive me, do.

I received your note, delayed answering it because I fancied Robert might learn to accept your kindness about the box after a day’s consideration, and so forgot everything bodily, taking one day for another, as is my way lately, in this great crush of too much to do and think of.  When I was persuaded to go yesterday morning for the first and last time to the Royal Academy, on the point of closing, I went in like an idiot—­that is, an innocent—­never once thinking of what I was running the risk of losing; and when I returned and found you gone, you were lost and I in despair.  So much in despair that I did not hope once you might come again, and out I went