othing
else lives.

We have had the kindest of letters from dear noble Mr. Kenyon; who,
by the way, speaks of you as we like to hear him. Dickens is going to
Paris for the winter, and Mrs. Butler[151] (he adds) is expected
in London. Dear Mr. Kenyon calls me 'crotchety,' but Robert 'an
incarnation of the good and the true,' so that I have everything to
thank him for. There are noble people who take the world's side and
make it seem 'for the _nonce_' almost respectable; but he gives up all
the talk and fine schemes about money-making, and allows us to wait to
see whether we want it or not--the money, I mean.

It is Monday, and I am only finishing this note. In the midst came
letters from my sisters, making me feel so glad that I could not
write. Everybody is well and happy, and dear papa _in high spirits_
and _having people to dine with him every day_, so that I have not
really done anyone harm in doing myself all this good. It does not
indeed bring us a step nearer to the forgiveness, but to hear of his
being in good spirits makes me inclined to jump, with Gerardine.[152]
Dear Geddie! How pleased I am to hear of her being happy, particularly
(perhaps) as she is not too happy to forget _me_. Is all that glory of
art making her very ambitious to work and enter into the court of the
Temple?...

Robert's love to you both. We often talk of our prospect of meeting
you again. And for the _past_, dearest Aunt Nina, believe of me that
I feel to you more gratefully than ever I can say, and remain, while I
live,

Your faithful and affectionate
BA.

[Footnote 151: Better known as Fanny Kemble.]

[Footnote 152: Miss Gerardine Bate, Mrs. Jameson's niece.]

_To Miss Mitford_
Pisa: December 19, [1846].

Ever dearest Miss Mitford, your kindest letter is three times welcome
as usual. On the day you wrote it in the frost, I was sitting out of
doors, just in my summer mantilla, and complaining 'of the heat this
December!' But woe comes to the discontented. Within these three or
four days we too have had frost--yes, and a little snow, for the
first time, say the Pisans, during five years. Robert says that
the mountains are powdered toward Lucca, and I, who cannot see the
mountains, can see the cathedral--the Duomo--how it glitters whitely
at the summit, between the blue sky and its own walls of yellow
marble. Of course I do not stir an inch from the fire, yet have to
struggle a little against my old languor. Only, you see, th