Do you now recall with pride that strange influence which you have twice exerted on my thoughts and on my resolutions? The only mistake made has been to feel a little uncertainty. Are you not astonished, as I am, with that strange coincidence (I shall not say sympathy, for fear of offending you) of our thoughts? Do you recollect that on a former occasion we had an experience almost as miraculous? and more recently still, beside a stove in the Spanish Museum, you read my thoughts as quickly as they came into my mind? For a long time I have suspected something of the diabolical in you, but I am reassured somewhat, remembering that I have seen both your feet, and neither one is a _cloven foot_. It may be, however, that you have concealed beneath those little boots a tiny hoof. I beg you to relieve my suspense. Good-bye. Here is the book of which I spoke. LIII PARIS, _February 9, 1843_. I was very uneasy when no word came from you. Not that I feared you had changed your mind, but I thought you were ill, and chided myself for taking you that long walk, returning through the wind and rain. Fortunately, it was the post-office, taking its Sunday holiday, which kept me waiting for your letter. Although the delay caused me intense suffering, I did not for a single moment blame you. I am glad to tell you this, so that you may know that I am overcoming my faults, as you also are overcoming yours. Good-bye, then, for a little while. My eyes no longer pain me. Yours, I fancy, sparkle as brightly as ever. What mountains we make out of molehills! Would it not have been a mistake not to see each other again? I am very blue and miserable. One of my intimate friends, whom I intended to visit in London, has just suffered a stroke of paralysis. I do not know whether it will be fatal, or, what would be even worse than death, whether he will linger on in that frightful condition of unconsciousness to which this disease brings the most brilliant minds. I am uncertain whether I ought not to go to see him at once. Write to me, I pray you, and say something sympathetic, so that I will forget my gloomy forebodings. LIV _Thursday morning, February, 1843._ Alas! Yes, poor Sharpe[7] has just been stricken down most suddenly and painfully. I have had no news from him since the 5th, and if you know some one in London who can tell you anything authentic, I beg you to write and learn his condition, and whether there is the least hope for his recovery. You may, perhaps, be acquainted with his sister. It was at her house, I suppose, that you met him. No matter what you say, second thoughts are only too evident in your letter. A few amiable words, however, slipped from you unconsciously. You go to a great deal of trouble to be disagreeable, and it is only by strenuous efforts that you succeed in being so.