confines of lunacy.

Good-bye, dear love.
Your EMILIA.




LETTER XIX.


GRAYSMILL, November 30th.

I write to you very soon, partly because of your letter that crossed
mine, but principally because I feel that I must write you a few
words before I go to sleep. I have just gone through Gabriel's
poems, and am beside myself with wonder. Constance, the creature is
a genius. I marvel at my happiness, that I should have touched his
life. No, I'll not write; I feel that, if I do, I shall write bosh.
Good-night; I hope you are sleeping fast at this moment,--and he
too.


December 1st.

We had a walk this afternoon. He looks pale, poor dear! he has had a
cold. How it hurts to see ill-health on a face that one loves!

We had a great altercation about his poems. I could not speak of
them when I put the manuscript into his hands; any words I might