“If I cared for you ten times more than I do,” said I then, “I should not be quite so blind as you suppose.  But, if you doubt my judgment, ask some one else, or compare the poems yourself with other verse.”

“Never!” he said.  “How can you even suggest such a thing?  Look here, Emilia.  A man has an ideal, a glimpse of something glittering up there in highest Heaven; he tries to shape his vision into words.  When he afterwards turns to his work coldly, critically, how shall he judge?  He must take measure by the height of the ideal, not by the achievement of another, even if that other be nearer Heaven than himself.”

I found this very fine and true, yet selfish.  Had he ever climbed less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.

“No,” he replied again, “no, I am too weak myself to help others.  Dear girl, don’t you see that those things were written with the blood of my heart?  Cold men would read them, tear them to pieces.  Emilia! they would review me!”

He said this with a sort of yell of despair.  I saw that he was in a perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace.  We talked of you afterwards, and he sent you his love.  Was that bold or not?  If you don’t care for the gift, send it back to me.  I am very hungry for that same food.

Emilia.

LETTER XX.

December 6th.

The snow is on the ground; ’tis a beautiful white world.  Yet to-day has been a dull day.  I had my lesson yesterday.  I spent the whole of this afternoon preparing a list of Christmas charities, in which Aunt Caroline and Ida Seymour helped me, good souls.  I can think of nothing but flannel this evening.  That is a lie, by the way; I almost wish it were not.  Yesterday Gabriel and I had an adventure.  I was walking part of the way back with him and Jane Norton, who had been taking tea with my old ladies, and as we went past a cottage, just off the lane, we heard fearful screams.  Gabriel sprang in, I following, and there we found a woman beating a little girl with a broom.  Gabriel’s eyes were like fire; he caught the child in one hand, the broom in the other; I thought he meant to bring it down on the woman’s back.  We stayed there some time, he lecturing the mother, I consoling the poor mite.  She was wretchedly clad; I shall bring her some clothes to-morrow.

I am dull.  I meant to write you a long letter, but somehow I can’t.  Farewell until to-morrow.

December 13th.

What will you be thinking of me?  Your silence is almost more unbearable than a letter of reproach would be; I had not realised until I found the above fragment in my desk just now, how miserably long it is since last I wrote to you.  Write to me, my dearest; I need to feel your love.  I think I am not very well just now; you must forgive me, yet don’t be anxious on my account.  I don’t feel very well, that’s all; there is nothing the matter with me.  Neither is there anything to tell you; all goes on as usual.  Gabriel is well.