Was more to point where lay most pressing need

Of treatment, than to name the remedy;

Physicians, as he said, think more of this,

To trace the true disease, than means to cure;
And he, if he might say so, being called

In consultation, gladly gave his views,

But to yourself, who had the case in hand,

The more immediate treatment must be left.

And this I think. He thought perhaps some good
Might be achieved by threatening her seducer,
(Forgive me, dear, I cannot call him else)
But not by writing as you had resolved;

For what would be more easy than for him
To act consistently, and put you off
With plausible excuses? Have we not
Sufficient proofs of his deceitfulness?

Enclosed I send your letter back again, And let me say, in spite of your request, (I know your sweet unselfishness of old)

How much I suffer with you.

Looking back

Upon your life, it seems so hard to me

That you should still, whose youth was made so

sad,

Thus grievously be chastened in your age.

Is it not Solomon that compares a child

Of disobedience to a serpent's tooth?
(Solomon or Ezekiel,—I forget;)

But how this truth must now be known to you!
And this reminds me;-have you not been hard
On poor dear Gertrude? Have you not (forgive
The hint, 'tis in all kindness) been to blame
In making more of Eucharis, who thus
(Poor girl!) repays your great solicitude?

And may not now some comfort flow to you
From reconciliation with the child

Who, like the eldest son, has stayed at home,
And not so much as vexed you with a word
May she not rightly feel some bitterness

To see her duteous life rewarded so?

For what in her has grieved you, after all,
Is done from kindness and regard for you.
I only put the question; you yourself
Will be more able to supply the answer.

And now farewell; I will not vex you more; You know my motives. Write again and say What you have done, or what you think to do.

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66

LETTER IX.

EUCHARIS TO HER MOTHER.

San Remo Dec. 25, 18-2.

TO-DAY is Christmas, mother, and to-day

I mean to spend with you.

Might but behold you!

I might but bless you!

Would that my eyes

Would that with my lips

Vain is the desire!—

Northward from here we see the distant Alps,
White shadows laid against transparent blue;
They seem so far that they might even be
The soul's unreachable abiding-place;-

To me they are so; I can sit and think
On what may lie beyond them, as one thinks
On what may lie beyond some point of Time
That moves up from the future,—whether life
The same as that we know, or something else

Too strange for words ;-there lie the Alps, far off;

But O, what number of horizons lie

Between my lips and yours, I dare not guess!

But if to-day aught move you to the hope

Of better things for men than they themselves
Can dream of yet;—if aught should wake in you
More trust in God than even is your wont,-
Then think that I am with you in that hope,
And in that larger trust. I write as if

I stood beside you, speaking; not to-day,
Nor yet to-morrow, nor next day, I think,
Will you be reading this. It matters not;
I feel you with me daily, and to-day

I think I almost see you in the room.

How shall I tell you, mother? In three months,

Or thereabouts, I think, I shall have died.

Not died as most would mean it; there are deaths Social and spiritual, as well as that

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