nd declares life so dull as not to be worth living. Poor dinky little
Othello! it shall have its occupation again to-day, and say just what it
likes.

It likes you while you keep away: so that's said! When I make it write
"come," it kicks and tries to say "don't." For it is an industrious
minion, loves to have work to do, and never complains of overhours. It
is a sentimental fact that I keep all its used-up brethren in an
inclosure together, and throw none of them away. If once they have
ridden over paper to you, I turn them to grass in their old age. I let
this out because I think it is time you had another laugh at me.

Laugh, dearest, and tell me that you have done so if you want to make me
a little more happy than I have been this last day or two. There has
been too much thinking in the heads of both of us. Be empty-headed for
once when you write next: whether you write little or much, I am sure
always of your full heart: but I cannot trust your brain to the same
pressure: it is such a Martha to headaches and careful about so many
things, and you don't bring it here to be soothed as often as you
should--not at its most needy moments, I mean.

Have you made the announcement? or does it not go till to-day? I am not
sorry, since the move comes from her, that we have not to wait now till
February. You will feel better when the storm is up than when it is only
looming. This is the headachy period.

Well. Say "well" with me, dearest! It is going to be well: waiting has
not suited us--not any of us, I think. Your mother is one in a thousand,
I say that and mean it:--worth conquering as all good things are. I
would not wish great fortune to come by too primrosy a way. "Canst thou
draw out Leviathan with a hook?" Even so, for size, is the share of the
world which we lay claim to, and for that we must be toilers of the
deep.--Always, Beloved, your truest and most loving.

LETTER LVI.

My Own Own Love: You have given me a spring day before the buds begin,--
the weather I have been longing for! I had been quite sad at heart these
cold wet days, really _down_;--a treasonable sadness with you still
anywhere in the world (though where in the world have you been?). Spring
seemed such a long way off over the bend of it, with you unable to come;
and it seems now another letter of yours has got lost. (Write it again,
dearest,--all that was in it, with any blots that happened to come:--there
was a dear smudge in to-day's,