ng a strange contrast to the brilliant sunshine and the soft blue
skies. Still November is not June, after all, however perfect the
imitation of some of its days. One day there was a heavy fog on his
favorite Lido, and the poet, who refused to be deprived of his walk,
became thoroughly chilled and illness followed. The following note from
Mr. Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson indicates the anxiety that prevailed
in Palazzo Rezzonico, where the tenderest care of his son and
daughter-in-law ministered to the poet. The note is undated, save by the
day of the week.

PALAZZO REZZONICO,

9 o'clock, Monday Evening.

DEAREST MRS. BRONSON,--The improvement of last night is scarcely
maintained this morning,--the action of the heart being weaker at
moments. He is quite clear-headed, and is never tired of saving he
feels better, "immensely better,--I don't suppose I could get up and
walk about, in fact I know I could not, but I have no aches or
pains,--quite comfortable, could not be more so,"--this is what he
said a moment ago.

I will let you know if there is any change as the day goes on.

My love to you.

Yours, PEN.

The delightful relations that had always prevailed between the poet and
his publishers were touchingly completed when, just before he breathed his
last, came a telegram from George Murray Smith with its tidings of the
interest with which "Asolando" was being received in England. And then
this little note written on that memorable date of December 12, 1889, from
Barrett Browning to Mrs. Bronson, tells the story of the poet's entrance
on the new life.

PALAZZO REZZONICO,

10.30 P.M.

DEAREST FRIEND,--Our Beloved breathed his last as San Marco's clock
struck ten,--without pain--unconsciously.

I was able to make him happy a little before he became unconscious by
a telegram from Smith saying, "Reviews in all this day's papers most
favorable, edition nearly exhausted."

He just murmured, "How gratifying."

Those were his last intelligible words.

Yours, PEN.

In that hour how could the son and the daughter who so loved him remember
aught save the exquisite lines with which the poet had anticipated the
reunion with his "Lyric Love":

"Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!"

In the grand _sala_ with its floor of b