that you
love me no more, you would not like me to do such a thing. A woman can
never do as she likes when she loves--there is no such thing until he
shows it her or she divines it. I loved you, I loved you!--that was all
I could do, and all I wanted to do.

You have kept my letters? Do you read them ever, I wonder? and do they
tell you differently about me, now that you see me with new eyes? Ah no,
you dare not look at them: they tell too much truth! How can love-letters
ever cease to be the winged things they were when they first came? I fancy
mine sick to death for want of your heart to rest on; but never less
loving.

If you would read them again, you would come back to me. Those little
throats of happiness would be too strong for you. And so you lay them in
a cruel grave of lavender,--"Lavender for forgetfulness" might be
another song for Ophelia to sing.

I am weak with writing to you, I have written too long: this is twice
to-day.

I do not write to make myself more miserable: only to fill up my time.

When I go about something definite, I can do it:--to ride, or read aloud
to the old people, or sit down at meals with them is very easy; but I
cannot make employment for myself--that requires too much effort of
invention and will: and I have only will for one thing in life--to get
through it: and no invention to the purpose. Oh, Beloved, in the grave I
shall lie forever with a lock of your hair in my hand. I wonder if,
beyond there, one sees anything? My eyes ache to-day from the brain,
which is always at blind groping for you, and the point where I missed
you.

LETTER LXIV.

Dearest: It is dreadful to own that I was glad at first to know that you
and your mother were no longer together, glad of something that must mean
pain to you! I am not now. When you were ill I did a wrong thing: from her
something came to me which I returned. I would do much to undo that act
now; but this has fixed it forever. With it were a few kind words. I could
not bear to accept praise from her: all went back to her! Oh, poor thing,
poor thing! if I ever had an enemy I thought it was she! I do not think so
now. Those who seem cold seldom are. I hope you were with her at the last:
she loved you beyond any word that was in her nature to utter, and the
young are hard on the old without knowing it. We were two people, she and
I, whose love clashed jealously over the same object, and we both failed.
She is the first to get re