And to think that she is dead!  Shall I tell you something very strange, almost inconceivable?  I cannot help feeling as if she knew.  Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child.

Good night, my dear little one.

Emilia.

LETTER XXXI.

Graysmill, February 24th.

I showed some parts of your letter to Gabriel, and we laughed very much.  What a bird she is, my Constance!  He is ever so much taller than I. We compared our height with the utmost care, this morning, for your especial benefit.  Do you remember—­what should I do to you, by the way, if you didn’t?—­that when your head is on my shoulder, my chin just makes a little roof for your curls, so that you always used to say, “How nicely we fit!” Well, there is just about the same difference between Gabriel and me, as between me and you.  I call that very nice.

Now, as to the rest of the world.  My two old dears are very sweet to me, and to Gabriel also.  Indeed, every one is pleasant to us, and if it does come to my ears that I am looked upon by Graysmill generally in the light of a harmless lunatic, why, what of that?  I take joy in the thought that none but myself knows the value of the treasure that is mine.  One good soul said to me yesterday:  “We think it very nice of you, very nice and modest.  Such a rich young lady as you are, you might have had any one you pleased!”

We went on Sunday to pay a formal visit to Uncle George.  That was a terrible ordeal, but we got some fun out of it.

I went to fetch Gabriel, for Uncle George lives just beyond Miltonhoe.  I found him in the study, sitting with his head in his hands, a picture of misery.

“Emilia,” said he, “you dare not be so cruel as to expect this of me.  I cannot go and see your uncle, indeed, I cannot.”

“You must,” said I; “I am very good to you on the whole; this is the only call I expect you to pay, but this one must be.  Up with you, and make yourself look respectable.”

So off he went, with despair in his eye, and Jane and I waited for him in the kitchen.  At the end of half an hour he reappeared.  He had merely put on a horrible black coat; for the rest, I could see no improvement.

There he stood, without hat or gloves.

“I am ready,” said he.

“You imp!” I cried; “you’ve been playing about!  What have you been at all this time?  Do you suppose I can present such a scarecrow to my relations?”

“Emilia,” answered the poor dear, very solemnly, “I have washed!”

There was nothing for it but to make him fetch the clothes-brush, and other implements of torture.  Jane and I marched him out into the hall, and there we prepared the victim.  We brushed his clothes, and straightened his necktie.  Even Richard Norton was so excited by the scene that he fetched the blacking-bottle and polished Gabriel’s boots, whilst Jane acted hairdresser and I held him down by both hands.  This in the midst of so much laughter that the tears stood in our eyes.