ng as it does not make you unhappy. You write to
her often and kindly, do you not?

Well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite
settled at this end that you are to be with us for Christmas:--read into
that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. I do not think
of it too much, till I am assured it is to be.

Did you go over to Pembury for the day? Your letter does not say anything:
but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out things of
outside importance. I shall hear from the rattle of returning fire-engines
some day that Hatterling has been burned down: and you will arrive cool
the next day and say, "Oh yes, it is so!"

I am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to
yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both to
her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. To realize
suddenly that Hatterling does not mean to you so much as the power to be
your own master and happy in your own way, which is altogether opposite to
_her_ way, will be so much of a blow that at first you will be able to do
nothing to soften it.

February fill-dyke is likely to be true to its name, this coming one, in
all that concerns us and our fortunes. Meanwhile, if at Pembury you
brought things any nearer settlement, and are not coming so soon as
to-morrow, let me know: for some things of "outside importance" do affect
me unfavorably while in suspense. I have not your serene determination to
abide the workings of Kismet when once all that can be done is done.

The sun sets now, when it does so visibly, just where Pembury _is_. I
take it as an omen. In your diary to-morrow you may write down in the
business column that you have had a business letter from _me_, or as
near to one as I can go:--chiefly for that it requires an answer on this
matter of "outside importance," which otherwise you will altogether
leave out. But you will do better still to come. My whole heart goes out
to fetch you: my dearest dear, ever your own.

LETTER L.

Beloved: No, not Browning but Tennyson was in my thoughts at our last ride
together: and I found myself shy, as I have been for a long time wishing
to say things I could not. What has never entered your head to ask becomes
difficult when I wish to get it spoken. So I bring Tennyson to tell you
what I mean:--

"Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaaey?
Proputt