LETTER IV.


GRAYSMILL, August 2d.

Now that's the kind of letter I like to have! Only my heart sickens
for thee. At each word I hear your voice; at every pause, the little
ripples that run away with it so sweetly. I cannot even find it in
me to scold you for your many follies. Young woman, I don't approve
of you, but you are the sweetest creature that ever walked this
earth. Thanks be where thanks are due that I am a woman; you would
have been my bane had I been born a man!

But, to be serious, I have been thinking things out; you must leave
your mother, Constance, and come to me. You have lived this kind of
life long enough; and--believe me, my dearest--you are not strong
enough to bear it longer unharmed.

Shall I be a little cruel to you? Well, my own, I think that if you
looked into your heart, searchingly and truly, as you always declare
you know not how, you would find that it is more cowardice than duty
binds you to Mrs. Rayner. She bore you, you say, she brought you
up--Good Lord! and how! If you were not a pearl among women, what
would you be by this time? No, you know as well as I do that it is
cowardice, not duty, prevents you from taking this step.

I shall never forget what you said to me once, when first I knew
you; it was in Florence, and we were leaning out of window in my
room. I remember it the better because it was during this