o one--and a letter from a man like you would encourage her
greatly."

Mr. Kenyon wrote the address of Miss Barrett on a card and pushed it
across the table.

Mr. Browning took the card, put it in his pocketbook and promised to write
Miss Barrett, as Mr. Kenyon requested.

And he did.

Miss Barrett replied.

Mr. Browning answered, and soon several letters a week were going in each
direction.

Not quite so many missives were being received by Fanny Haworth; and as
for Lizzie Flower, I fear she was quite forgotten. She fell into a
decline, drooped and died in a year.

Mr. Browning asked for permission to call on Miss Barrett.

Miss Barrett explained that her father would not allow it, neither would
the doctor or nurse, and added: "There is nothing to see in me. I am a
weed fit for the ground and darkness."

But this repulse only made Mr. Browning want to see her the more. He
appealed to Mr. Kenyon, who was the only person allowed to call, besides
Miss Mitford--Mr. Kenyon was her cousin.

Mr. Kenyon arranged it--he was an expert at arranging anything of a
delicate nature. He timed the hour when Mr. Barrett was down town, and the
nurse and doctor safely out of the way, and they called on the invalid
prisoner in the darkened room.

They did not stay long, but when they went away Robert Browning trod on
air. The beautiful girl-like face, in its frame of dark curls, lying back
among the pillows, haunted him like a shadow. He was thirty-three, she was
thirty-five. She looked like a child, but the mind--the subtle,
appreciative, receptive mind! The mind that caught every allusion, that
knew his thought before he voiced it, that found nothing obscure in his
work, and that put a high and holy construction on his every sentence--it
was divine! divinity incarnated in a woman.

Robert Browning tramped the streets forgetful of meat, drink or rest.

He would give this woman freedom. He would devote himself to restoring her
to the air and sunshine. What nobler ambition! He was an idler, he had
never done anything for anybody. He was only a killer of time, a vagrant,
but now was his opportunity--he would do for this beautiful soul what no
one else on earth could do. She was slipping away as it was--the world
would soon lose her. Was there none to save?

Here was the finest intellect ever given to a woman--so sure, so vital, so
tender and yet so strong!

He would love her back to life and light!

And so Robert Brownin