We have made no plans yet; that is to say, we have made so many that
choice between them is impossible. Still, although we build fresh
castles in the air each time we meet, they all float towards Italy,
in the springtime, halting a while where Constance is. If, indeed,
there be a cloud remaining in my heaven, it is that you two, my
soul's monarchs, know each other only through the medium of my love.
My eyes long to hold you both; I want to walk in the body, as I do
in the spirit, clasping a hand of each.
And to think that she is dead! Shall I tell you something very
strange, almost inconceivable? I cannot help feeling as if she knew.
Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child.
Good night, my dear little one.
EMILIA.
LETTER XXXI.
GRAYSMILL, February 24th.
I showed some parts of your letter to Gabriel, and we laughed very
much. What a bird she is, my Constance! He is ever so much taller
than I. We compared our height with the utmost care, this morning,
for your especial benefit.
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