TO MRS. R.H.  JELF.

DEAREST MARNY,

The Queers’ letters are VERY nice.  Thank them with my love.

* * * * *

Forgive pencil, dear—­I’m in bed.  Got rid of my throat—­and now all my “body and bones” seem to have given way, I thought it was lumbago or sciatica—­but Rex said—­“Simply nerve exhaustion from over-writing”—­so I took to bed (for I couldn’t walk!), high living and quinine!  I hope I’ll soon be round again.  The vile body is a nuisance.  I’ve got a story in my head—­and that seems to take the vital force out of my legs!!!

Apropos to Richard’s Churchwarden’s conscience, does he remember the (possibly churchwarden!) “soul long hovering in fear and doubt”—­in A Kempis, who prostrated himself in prayer and groaned—­“Oh if I only knew that I should persevere!” To whom came the answer of God—­“If thou didst know it, what wouldst thou do then?  Continue to do that and thou shalt be safe.”

His letter and yours were very comforting.  I was just feeling very low about my writing.  I always do when I have to re-read for new editions!  It does seem such twaddle—­and so unlike what I want to say!

Thank you greatly for believing in me!

* * * * *

Your loving, J.H.E.

TO MRS. HOWARD.

Villa Ponente, Taunton. Jan. 18, 1884.

MY DEAR MRS. HOWARD,

In this Green Winter (and you know how I love a Green Winter!) you and all your kindness comes back so often to my mind.  “Grenoside” is a closed leaf in my life as well as in yours, but it is one that I shall never forget so long as I can remember any of the things that have mitigated the pains of life for me, or added to its pleasures!—­The bits of Green Winter I enjoyed with you did both—­I hardly know which the most!  For the pleasure was very great, and the benefit immeasurable—­though now a fair amount of strength and “all my faculties” have come back to me, I feel what a very tedious companion I must have been when vegetating was all I was fit for, and I did such delightful vegetating between your sofa—­and Greno Wood.

I want to tell you that I have some bits of you in what does the work of Greno Wood for me here—­namely, my little patch of garden, looking out upon, what I call my big fields.  For some time I feared the said bits were not going to live, but they have now, I really think, got grip of the ground.  They are those offshoots of your American Bramble which you gave to me.  And, ere long, I hope to sow a little paper of your poppy seed, and—­if two years’ keeping has not destroyed its vitality—­I may, perchance, send you some of your own poppies to deck your London rooms.  You cannot think—­or rather I have no doubt that you can!—­the refreshment my bit of garden is to me.  It has become so dear, that (like an ugly face one loves and ceases to see plain!)—­I find it so charming that it is with a start that I recognize that new friends see no beauty in—­