can share with neither. Some day, of course, we shall speak of it
and laugh. Perhaps not. My only fear now is that perhaps I might go
mad, that perhaps I am mad, that all this is a deception, the
outcome of my poor brain. I don't know what to think.

I found Gabriel on the Common just before I reached the Cottage. I
thought he was writing; he was lying at full length on the heather.
I stood still within a few yards of him, and presently he looked up,
his dear face flushed.

"Emilia!" he cried, "I want you more than ever I did! Sit here by
me."

And when I had sat down a little way from him, away from him just
because I so longed to sit next, he drew himself up to me and took
my glad hand.

I asked him what was amiss, saying I did not like his looks and
nervous ways.

"Where are your gay spirits?" said I; "I hardly know my child, he
has grown so sober."

"Yes," he replied. "I hardly know myself. I think I am not well. The
poem is dead,--not a throb of the pulse. Emilia! you must cure me!"

"Dear," said I, "how shall that be?"

"Take me away! I am weary of all things. The summer is fledged; he
will take wing before we realise it. You must marry me soon, very