I came upon a little phrase the other day that touched me so deeply: it said so well what I have wanted to say since we have known each other. Some peasant rhymer, an Irishman, is singing his love's praises, and sinks his voice from the height of his passionate superlatives to call her his "share of the world." Peasant and Irishman, he knew that his fortune did not embrace the universe: but for him his love was just that--his share of the world. Surely when in anyone's friendship we seem to have gained our share of the world, that is all that can be said. It means all that we can take in, the whole armful the heart and senses are capable of, or that fate can bestow. And for how many that must be friendship--especially for how many women! My dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of Heaven: but there I begin to speak of what I do not know, as is the way with happy humanity. All that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster to get hold of--your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the blue. My friend, my friend, my friend! If you could change or go out of my life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: I should see the world with a great piece gashed out of its side,--my share of it gone. No, I should not see it, I don't think I should see anything ever again,--not truly. Is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? I do: don't let it weary you. I know I have read somewhere that great love always entails pain. I have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean fear,--the sort of fear I had as a child going into big buildings. I loved them: but I feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to tumble on me. But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear I would not part with if I might. I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon it--a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it, dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.--When I see you so, I feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words. Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout. "Night-night!" Your true sleepy one. LETTER VIII. Now _why_, I want to know, Beloved, was I so specially "good" to you in my last? I have been quite as good to you fifty times before,--if such a thing can be from me to you. Or do you mean good _for_ you? Then, dear, I must be sorry that the thing stands out so much as an exception!