and I had the place to ourselves.  They were much distressed, bless them, at the extraordinary antiquity of Jane Norton’s black silk gown; Heaven only knows in what year of Grace it was fabricated, and how she manages to keep it together.  I’m afraid I shall have some difficulty in preventing Aunt Caroline from giving Jane a new dress,—­she certainly won’t rest till she has done so.  As for Gabriel, he was so remarkably dusty and threadbare that I set him at table with his back to the light, in such a manner that his mere silhouette was exposed to Hopkinson’s scrutiny.  I must allow, however, that he behaved beautifully, and Jane was perfect; she made an excellent impression on grandmamma, who is very anxious I should invite her again.

“In fact,” said she, “I don’t see why she shouldn’t come and have a cup of tea with us every time your teacher comes; then we shall know she has a good tea twice a week at least, poor thing!”

Why can’t I see him without these subterfuges?  Why can’t we meet here in my house in all simplicity, without fear of that monster, the world, and its murderous tongue?  It all seemed so good and so simple that morning when he said to me:—­

“We will be friends as friends should be; all shall be true and free between us; we shall make exchange of our thoughts, and learn together how to live.”

Never mind; I am very fortunate.

Good-bye, my sweet dear, and again, forgive me!  I love you.

Emilia.

LETTER XVIII.

Graysmill, November 26th.

Bless you for all your words!  Yes, you must come out to me next spring, and then we three can be friends together:  three should be more beautiful than two, in such harmony as ours would be.  I take it for granted that you and Gabriel will care for each other; it would be a great grief to me if you did not.  I hate people I like not to like each other; nothing hurts more—­except, perhaps, to oneself dislike a friend’s friend.

My Greek is getting on; I am fearfully industrious, and have even pinned up the declensions, written out in a large hand, on my bedroom wall, so that I can learn them whilst I dress.

Gabriel is quite pleased with his pupil, and I have begun to teach him Italian.  He reads it very well, but cannot speak it at all at present.  We had a long talk, the other day, about his future.  I think it will be quite impossible for him to continue this mode of life very long; I find that I am not so happy about him as I was at first.  Sometimes I think I should like to give him half my money—­how ridiculous it seems that such a thing should be out of the question!—­and let him lead the tranquil life of study and contemplation that he loves, send him to other lands where he might wander up and down in the sunshine, seeing the world and all its beauties,—­he that has eyes to see, a heart to feel.  But then, at other times, I feel that I should like to strip