sm
... (rationalism and infidelity go together they say!). All which I
may do, and be afraid sometimes notwithstanding, and when you
overpraise me (_not_ over_love_) I must be frightened as I told you.

It is with me as with the theologians. I believe in you and can be
happy and safe _so_; but when my 'personal merits' come into question
in any way, even the least, ... why then the position grows untenable:
it is no more 'of grace.'

Do I tease you as I tease myself sometimes? But do not wrong me in
turn! Do not keep repeating that 'after long years' I shall know
you--know you!--as if I did not without the years. If you are forced
to refer me to those long ears, I must deserve the thistles besides.
The thistles are the corollary.

For it is obvious--manifest--that I cannot doubt of you, that I may
doubt of myself, of happiness, of the whole world,--but of
_you_--_not_: it is obvious that if I could doubt of you and _act so_
I should be a very idiot, or worse indeed. And _you_ ... you think I
doubt of you whenever I make an interjection!--now do you not? And is
it reasonable?--Of _you_, I mean?

_Monday._--For my part, you must admit it to be too possible that you
may be, as I say, 'disappointed' in me--it _is_ too possible. And if
it does me good to say so, even now perhaps ... if it is mere weakness
to say so and simply torments you, why do _you_ be magnanimous and
forgive _that_ ... let it pass as a weakness and forgive it _so_.
Often I think painful things which I do not tell you and....

While I write, your letter comes. Kindest of you it was, to write me
such a letter, when I expected scarcely the shadow of one!--this makes
up for the other letter which I expected unreasonably and which you
'_ought not_' to have written, as was proved afterwards. And now why
should I go on with that sentence? What had I to say of 'painful
things,' I wonder? all the painful things seem gone ... vanished. I
forget what I had to say. Only do you still think of this, dearest
beloved; that I sit here in the dark but for _you_, and that the light
you bring me (from _my_ fault!--from the nature of _my_ darkness!) is
not a settled light as when you open the shutters in the morning, but
a light made by candles which burn some of them longer and some
shorter, and some brighter and briefer, at once--being 'double-wicks,'
and that there is an intermission for a moment now and then between
the dropping of the old light into the socket and