LETTER XXII.


GRAYSMILL, December 29th.

You must hear from me once again this year, my Constance. Oh,
dearest, dearest, it has only come to me of late, when my love for
you has shone dimly compared to another, what it is worth to me,
your love. I cannot express myself; I am all entangled, hopeless.
But what I mean is this: you have been one long joy to me, a sun
that has had no setting. I would I were as I used to be, untouched
by the knowledge that love can be hard pain. My sweet dear, you were
enough; why have I learned this bitter knowledge? Oh, how I laugh of
a night, thinking of myself six months ago, thinking of what I then
mistook for love!

Eleven days since I saw him. I have been conscious of every hour. We
were busy here; there is much to do at Christmas time. I wrote to
him that I could take no more lessons nor even walk with him for the
present, as I must devote myself entirely to the Christmas work, and
he has written to me twice. He would have me think that he sits
there forlorn, cursing Yule-tide and charity; he says in the letter
I received this morning, that it is time my charity were turned in
his direction. I think I shall go to the cottage this afternoon;
there is an end to all endurance. Or shall I wait until New Year's
day? Perhaps that were best. I like to try my strength, to see how
much can be borne.