to see the motive. So do you, I am certain. It has been
very, very painful altogether, this drawing together of life and death.
Robert was too enraptured at my safety and with his little son, and the
sudden reaction was terrible. . . .'

Bagni di Lucca.

'. . . We have been wandering in search of cool air and a cool bough
among all the olive trees to build our summer nest on. My husband has
been suffering beyond what one could shut one's eyes to, in consequence
of the great mental shock of last March--loss of appetite, loss of
sleep--looks quite worn and altered. His spirits never rallied except
with an effort, and every letter from New Cross threw him back into deep
depression. I was very anxious, and feared much that the end of it
all would be (the intense heat of Florence assisting) nervous fever or
something similar; and I had the greatest difficulty in persuading
him to leave Florence for a month or two. He who generally delights in
travelling, had no mind for change or movement. I had to say and swear
that Baby and I couldn't bear the heat, and that we must and would go
away. "Ce que femme veut, _homme_ veut," if the latter is at all amiable,
or the former persevering. At last I gained the victory. It was agreed
that we two should go on an exploring journey, to find out where we
could have most shadow at least expense; and we left our child with
his nurse and Wilson, while we were absent. We went along the coast to
Spezzia, saw Carrara with the white marble mountains, passed through
the olive-forests and the vineyards, avenues of acacia trees, chestnut
woods, glorious surprises of the most exquisite scenery. I say
olive-forests advisedly--the olive grows like a forest-tree in those
regions, shading the ground with tints of silvery network. The olive
near Florence is but a shrub in comparison, and I have learnt to despise
a little too the Florentine vine, which does not swing such portcullises
of massive dewy green from one tree to another as along the whole road
where we travelled. Beautiful indeed it was. Spezzia wheels the blue sea
into the arms of the wooded mountains; and we had a glance at Shelley's
house at Lerici. It was melancholy to me, of course. I was not sorry
that the lodgings we inquired about were far above our means. We
returned on our steps (after two days in the dirtiest of possible inns),
saw Seravezza, a village in the mountains, where rock river and
wood enticed us to stay, and the inhabi