he asked of me. But the wind was east.

MY DEAR LIZZIE,--I can think of nothing now but Charles Emerson. A
sudden gloom seems to overshadow me. I hope you will tell us to-morrow
whether he is dangerously ill. We had an exquisite visit from Waldo.
It was the warbling of the Attic bird. The gleam of his _diffused_
smile; the musical thunder of his voice; his repose, so full of the
essence of life; his simplicity--just think of all these, and of my
privilege in seeing and hearing him. He enjoyed everything we showed
him so much. He talked so divinely to Raphael's Madonna del Pesce. I
vainly imagined I was very quiet all the while, preserving a very
demure exterior, and supposed I was sharing his oceanic calm. But the
next day I was aware that I had been in a very intense state. I told
Mary, that night after he had gone, that I felt like a gem; that was
the only way I could express it. I don't know what Mary hoped to get
from him, but I was sure of drinking in that which would make me paint
Cuban skies better than even my recollections could have made me, were
they as vivid as the rays of the sun in that sunniest of climates. He
made me feel as Eliza Dwight did once, when she looked uncommonly
beautiful and animated. I felt as if her beauty was all about the
room, and that I was in it, and therefore beautiful too. It seemed
just so with Waldo's soul-beauty. Good-by,

SOPHY.

June 1, 1838.

One afternoon Elizabeth Hawthorne came to walk with Mary, and mother
went with her instead. She first came up into my chamber, and seemed
well pleased with it, but especially admired the elm-tree outside. She