That was Thursday, and I have not seen him since.

Good-bye, my dearest; I kiss your sweet eyes.

EMILIA.




LETTER XV.


GRAYSMILL, October 31st.

No, of course I have not said a word about it at the house; what an
idea! Why should I? Good gracious me, they'd think me mad. Besides,
I am my own mistress, and am not answerable to anybody for my
actions. Not for the world would I speak of the Nortons to any of
these people here.

Ida Seymour is a fixture, for the present, at least. Her good
offices leave me a great deal more liberty than I enjoyed during the
first few months. Apart from meal-times I give some two hours a day
to my old ladies, and work hard the rest of the time. I have
finished "Prometheus," and laid it aside to await revision; I am now
sorting my mother's papers, with a view to some day publishing a
selection of them. Perhaps. But there is such a sacredness to me
about all she has left behind, that I cannot yet bear the thought of
sending anything that remains of her out into the cold world, to be