Oh, what a struggling world it is!  And how weary one becomes of the incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far away, unknown, or dead!  Oh, I am very lonely.  What is life without love?  It is not to be borne.  Do you remember what it was to lie in your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great Heaven-roof of love,—­to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?  O Constance, I would give all—­my very eyesight—­to feel an arm about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest.  We women are poor wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.

Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.

Good night, dearest. 
E

LETTER X.

Graysmill, September 20th.

Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day of days to me.  How could I live without you?  I am purely selfish when I wish you perfect joy and a long golden life; it is almost like praying for fine weather!  All the strings of my heart go towards you, Constance Norris, and are knotted in your bosom.  Be happy, be well, my darling, else I suffer.  We shall not be apart on your next birthday, I think.  I have evolved a marvellous scheme.  Your mother is still young, and a very handsome woman; why don’t you marry her?  Really, it’s a plan worth attempting; couldn’t you persuade one of your numerous admirers to transfer his affections?  Then, Constantia mia, we two could live together.  We should mostly live abroad, following the sunshine; but for a part of the year we should stay here in England.  Don’t wrinkle up your dear nose!  You will be every bit as much in love with the country as I am, when once you know it well.  I wish I could show it you now; the woods are changing colour, ’tis a glowing world, and your lungs have never tasted such air as blows on Graysmill Heath.  You would be very happy in the woods in summer; you could lie down and bring your face on a level with the flowers, and I should sit by and love you.  There would be little sunbeams piercing the roof of leaves and twinkling about us, and just enough breeze to clear your brow of curls.  O Constance!  Why are we so far apart?  Only one life, and then parted!  But one must not think of such things.

I send you a little ring that I found the other day in Miltonhoe; there is a kiss on the red stone, don’t lose it.

Blessings upon you, my heart of gold.

Emilia.

LETTER XI.

Graysmill, October 5th.

Three several times have I begun to write to you, but I came to the conclusion that it is better not to write at all than to give vent to such feelings as mine.  Besides, I had nothing, positively nothing, to tell you.  Furthermore, you did not deserve a letter.  However, as it is all too long since you honoured me with a communication, Mrs. Norris, I feel I must write and remind you of my existence.  I am well, thank you, but the world’s a dull place.