work and hers is so great that I sometimes lose heart. However, I
shall try to finish it. Her beautiful face and yours look down at
me from the shelf above my writing-table, amidst a wealth of
flowers; and, as I look up, I can see the sun setting behind the
beech-trees, for I sit beside the window. The sky is full of hope,
the little clouds are glowing with colour, the trees with fulness
of life; a blackbird is singing his heart out in the willow by the
pond. I must needs believe that life is worth living....

I have watched all the pink fade from the sky; the mottled clouds
are grey and sleepy-looking. I have turned away. You are smiling
very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her hand has
touched,--I am not quite alone.

Well, good night. I must go down to my dear old ladies and read to
them a while before they go to bed.

Your EMILIA.




LETTER VIII.


GRAYSMILL, September 4th.

You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard that
deserves not one half of what you give. I began to write several
times--of course you know that. Take care of yourself; the thought