too, his patience and gentleness, have been very trying.  He said to me, ’You pet! don’t be unhappy for me.  Think it’s a poor little boy in the street, and be just only a little sorry, and not unhappy at all.’  Well, we may thank God that the bad time seems passed.  He is still in bed, but it is a matter of precaution chiefly.  The fever is quite in abeyance—­has been for two days, and we have all to be grateful for two most tranquil nights.  He amuses himself in putting maps together, and cutting out paper, and packing up his desk to go to Florence, which is the idee fixe just now.  In fact when he can be moved we shall not wait here a day, for the rains have set in, and the dry elastic air of Florence will be excellent for him.  The medical man (an Italian) promises us almost that we may be able to go in a week from this time; but we won’t hurry, we will run no risks.  For some days he has been allowed no other sort of nourishment but ten dessert-spoonfuls of thin broth twice a day—­literally nothing; not a morsel of bread, not a drop of tea, nothing.  Even now the only change is, a few more spoonfuls of the same broth.  It is hard, for his appetite cries out aloud; and he has agonising visions of beefsteak pies and buttered toast seen in mirage.  Still his spirits don’t fail on the whole and now that the fever is all but gone, they rise, till we have to beg him to be quiet and not to talk so much.  He had the flower-girl in by his bedside yesterday, and it was quite impossible to help laughing, so many Florentine airs did he show off.  ’Per Bacco, ho una fame terribile, e non voglio aver piu pazienza con questo Dottore.’  The doctor, however, seems skilful....

But you may think how worn out I have been in body and soul, and how under these circumstances we think little of Jerusalem or of any other place but our home at Florence.  Still, we shall probably pass the winter either at Rome or Naples, but I know no more than a swaddled baby which.  Also we shan’t know, probably, till the end of November, when we take out our passports.  Doubt is our element....

I must go to my Peni.  I am almost happy about him now.  And yet—­oh, his lovely rosy cheeks, his round fat little shoulders, his strength and spring of a month ago!—­at the best, we must lose our joy and pride in these for a time.  May God bless you!  I know you will feel for me, and that makes me so egotistical.

Your ever affectionate
BA.

* * * * *

To Miss Browning

[Florence:  February 1858.]

My dearest Sarianna,—­Robert is going to write to dear M. Milsand, whose goodness is ‘passing that of men,’ of all common friends certainly.  Robert’s thanks are worth more than mine, and so I shall leave it to Robert to thank him.