verything
properly, could execute, verbally at least, a wild fantasia. Among
the first of his friends to be written to was Mildred Wain, because,
as he says in a later letter, he felt towards her deep gratitude "for
forming a topic of conversation on my first visit to a family with
which I have since formed a dark and shameful connection."

DEAR MILDRED,

On rising this morning, I carefully washed my boots in hot water
and blacked my face. Then assuming my coat with graceful ease and
with the tails in front, I descended to breakfast, where I gaily
poured the coffee on the sardines and put my hat on the fire to boil.
These activities will give you some idea of my frame of mind. My
family, observing me leave the house by way of the chimney, and take
the fender with me under one arm, thought I must have something on my
mind. So I had.

My friend, I am engaged. I am only telling it at present to my real
friends: but there is no doubt about it. The next question that
arises is--whom am I engaged to? I have investigated this problem
with some care, and, as far as I can make out, the best authorities
point to Frances Blogg. There can I think be no reasonable doubt that
she is the lady. It is as well to have these minor matters clear in
one's mind.

I am very much too happy to write much; but I thought you might
remember my existence sufficiently to be interested in the incident.

Waldo has been of so much help to me in this and in everything, and
I am so much interested in you for his sake and your own, that I am
encouraged to hope our friendship may subsist. If ever I have done
anything rude or silly, it was quite inadvertent. I have always
wished to please you.

To Annie Firmin he wrote:

I can only think of the day, one of the earliest I can recall of my
life, when you came in and helped me to build a house with bricks. I
am building another one now, and it would not have been complete
without your going over it.

To others he wrote such sentences as he could put together in the
whirlwind of his happiness. For himself he stammered in a verse that
grew with the years into his great love poetry.

God made thee mightily, my love,
He stretched his hands out of his rest
And lit the star of east and west
Brooding o'er darkness like a dove.
God made thee mightily, my love.

God made thee patiently, my sweet,
Out of