I mean wrong for your sake, and not for mine ...
wrong in letting you come out into the desert here to me, you whose
place is by the waters of Damascus. But I need not tell you over
again--you _know_. May God bless you till to-morrow and past it for
ever. Mr. Kenyon brought me your note yesterday to read about the
'order in the button-hole'--ah!--or 'oh, _you_,' may I not re-echo? It
enrages me to think of Mr. Forster; publishing too as he does, at a
moment, the very sweepings of Landor's desk! Is the motive of the
reticence to be looked for somewhere among the cinders?--Too bad it
is. So, till to-morrow! and you shall not be 'kind' any more.

Your

E.B.B.

But how, 'a _foolish_ comment'? Good and true rather! And I admired
the _writing_[1] ... worthy of the reeds of Jordan!

[Footnote 1: Mr. Browning's letter is written in an unusually bold
hand.]

_R.B. to E.B.B._

Thursday Morning.
[Post-mark, November 27, 1845.]

How are you? and Miss Bayley's visit yesterday, and Mr. K.'s
to-day--(He told me he should see you this morning--and _I_ shall pass
close by, having to be in town and near you,--but only the thought
will reach you and be with you--) tell me all this, dearest.

How kind Mr. Kenyon was last night and the day before! He neither
wonders nor is much vexed, I dare believe--and I write now these few
words to say so--My heart is set on next Thursday, remember ... and
the prize of Saturday! Oh, dearest, believe for truth's sake, that I
WOULD most frankly own to any fault, any imperfection in the beginning
of my love of you; in the pride and security of this present stage it
has reached--I _would_ gladly learn, by the full lights now, what an
insufficient glimmer it grew from, ... but there _never has been
change_, only development and increased knowledge and strengthened
feeling--I was made and meant to look for you and wait for you and
become yours for ever. God bless you, and make me thankful!

And you _will_ give me _that_? What shall save me from wreck: but
truly? How must I feel to you!

Yours R.B.

_E.B.B. to R.B._

Monday Evening.
[Post-mark, November 27, 1845.]

Now you must not blame me--you must not. To make a promis