ne of the
prodigalities of your goodness to me ... not thrown away, in one
sense, however superfluous. Do you ever think how I must feel when you
overcome me with all this generous tenderness, only beloved! I cannot
say it.

Because it is colder to-day I have not been down-stairs but let
to-morrow be warm enough--_facilis descensus_. There's something
infernal to me really, in the going down, and now too that our cousin
is here! Think of his beginning to attack Henrietta the other day....
'_So_ Mr. C. has retired and left the field to Surtees Cook. Oh ...
you needn't deny ... it's the news of all the world except your
father. And as to _him_, I don't blame you--he never will consent to
the marriage of son or daughter. Only you should consider, you know,
because he won't leave you a shilling, &c. &c....' You hear the sort
of man. And then in a minute after ... 'And what is this about Ba?'
'About Ba' said my sisters, 'why who has been persuading you of such
nonsense?' 'Oh, my authority is very good,--perfectly unnecessary for
you to tell any stories, Arabel,--a literary friendship, is it?' ...
and so on ... after that fashion! This comes from my brothers of
course, but we need not be afraid of its passing _beyond_, I think,
though I was a good deal vexed when I heard first of it last night and
have been in cousinly anxiety ever since to get our Orestes safe away
from those Furies his creditors, into Brittany again. He is an
intimate friend of my brothers besides the relationship, and they talk
to him as to each other, only they oughtn't to have talked _that_, and
without knowledge too.

I forgot to tell you that Mr. Kenyon was in an immoderate joy the day
I saw him last, about Mr. Poe's 'Raven' as seen in the _Athenaeum_
extracts, and came to ask what I knew of the poet and his poetry, and
took away the book. It's the rhythm which has taken him with 'glamour'
I fancy. Now you will stay on Monday till the last moment, and go to
him for dinner at six.

Who 'looked in at the door?' Nobody. But Arabel a little way opened
it, and hearing your voice, went back. There was no harm--_is_ no fear
of harm. Nobody in the house would find his or her pleasure in running
the risk of giving me pain. I mean my brothers and sisters would not.

Are you trying the music to charm the brain to stillness? Tell me. And
keep from that 'Soul's Tragedy' which did so much harm--oh, that I had
bound you by some Stygian oath not to touch it.

S