And meanwhile I desire but to work in a corner; to make the few lives that touch my own a little happier and braver; to give of my best, to withhold what is base and poor.  There is abundance of evil, of weakness, of ugliness, of dreariness in my own heart; I only pray that I may keep it there, not let it escape, not let it flow into other lives.

The great danger of all natures like my own, which have a touch of what is, I suppose, the artistic temperament, is a certain hardness, a self-centred egotism, a want of lovingness and sympathy.  One sees things so clearly, one hankers so after the power of translating and expressing emotion and beauty, that the danger is of losing proportion, of subordinating everything to the personal value of experience.  From this danger, which is only too plain to me, I humbly desire to escape; it is all the more dangerous when one has the power, as I am aware I have, of entering swiftly and easily into intimate personal relations with people; one is so apt, in the pleasure of observing, of classifying, of scrutinising varieties of temperament, to use that power only to please and amuse oneself.  What one ought to aim at is not the establishment of personal influence, not the perverted sense of power which the consciousness of a hold over other lives gives one, but to share such good things as one possesses, to assist rather than to sway.

Well, it is all in the hands of God; again and again one returns to that, as the bird after its flight in remote fields returns to the familiar tree, the branching fastness.  One should learn, I am sure, to live for the day and in the day; not to lose oneself in anxieties and schemes and aims; not to be overshadowed by distant terrors and far-off hopes, but to say, “To-day is given me for my own; let me use it, let me live in it.”  One’s immediate duty is happily, as a rule, clear enough.  “Do the next thing,” says the old shrewd motto.

The bells cease in the tower, leaving a satisfied stillness.  The fire winks and rustles in the grate; a faint wind shivers and rustles down the garden paths, sighing for the dawn.  I grow weary.

Herbert, I must say “Good-night.”  God keep and guard you, my old and true friend.  I have rejoiced week by week to hear of your recovered health, your activity, your renewed zest in life.  When shall I welcome you back?  I feel somehow that in these months of separation we have grown much nearer and closer together.  We have been able to speak in our letters in a way that we have seldom been able to speak eye to eye.  There is a pure gain.  My heart goes out to you and yours; and at this moment I feel as if the dividing seas are nothing, and that we are close together in the great and loving heart of God.—­Your ever affectionate,

T. B.

SIBTHORPE vicarage, Wells,
Jan. 7, 1905.