I found this very fine and true, yet selfish. Had he ever climbed
less high than he wished, he might at least stand forth, and showing
where he stood, stretch out a hand to others.

"No," he replied again, "no, I am too weak myself to help others.
Dear girl, don't you see that those things were written with the
blood of my heart? Cold men would read them, tear them to pieces.
Emilia! they would review me!"

He said this with a sort of yell of despair. I saw that he was in a
perfectly impossible mood, so I left him in peace. We talked of you
afterwards, and he sent you his love. Was that bold or not? If you
don't care for the gift, send it back to me. I am very hungry for
that same food.

EMILIA.




LETTER XX.


December 6th.

The snow is on the ground; 'tis a beautiful white world. Yet to-day
has been a dull day. I had my lesson yesterday. I spent the whole of
this afternoon preparing a list of Christmas charities, in which
Aunt Caroline and Ida Seymour helped me, good souls. I can think of