A pleasant piece of news came to brighten the January of 1858. Mr. Fox
was returned for Oldham, and at once wrote to announce the fact. He
was answered in a joint letter from Mr. and Mrs. Browning, interesting
throughout, but of which only the second part is quite suited for
present insertion.

Mrs. Browning, who writes first and at most length, ends by saying
she must leave a space for Robert, that Mr. Fox may be compensated for
reading all she has had to say. The husband continues as follows:


. . . 'A space for Robert' who has taken a breathing space--hardly more
than enough--to recover from his delight; he won't say surprise, at your
letter, dear Mr. Fox. But it is all right and, like you, I wish from my
heart we could get close together again, as in those old days, and what
times we would have here in Italy! The realization of the children's
prayer of angels at the corner of your bed (i.e. sofa), one to read
and one (my wife) to write,* and both to guard you through the night of
lodging-keeper's extortions, abominable charges for firing, and so on.
(Observe, to call oneself 'an angel' in this land is rather humble,
where they are apt to be painted as plumed cutthroats or celestial
police--you say of Gabriel at his best and blithesomest, 'Shouldn't
admire meeting _him_ in a narrow lane!')

* Mr. Fox much liked to be read to, and was in the habit
of writing his articles by dictation.

I say this foolishly just because I can't trust myself to be earnest
about it. I would, you know, I would, always would, choose you out of
the whole English world to judge and correct what I write myself; my