Another, undated extract might refer to the early summer of 1859 or 1860, when a meeting with the father and sister must have been once more in contemplation. Casa Guidi. 'My dearest Sarianna,--I am delighted to say that we have arrived, and see our dear Florence--the Queen of Italy, after all . . . A comfort is that Robert is considered here to be looking better than he ever was known to look--and this, notwithstanding the greyness of his beard . . . which indeed, is, in my own mind, very becoming to him, the argentine touch giving a character of elevation and thought to the whole physiognomy. This greyness was suddenly developed--let me tell you how. He was in a state of bilious irritability on the morning of his arrival in Rome, from exposure to the sun or some such cause, and in a fit of suicidal impatience shaved away his whole beard . . . whiskers and all!! I _cried_ when I saw him, I was so horror-struck. I might have gone into hysterics and still been reasonable--for no human being was ever so disfigured by so simple an act. Of course I said when I recovered heart and voice, that everything was at an end between him and me if he didn't let it all grow again directly, and (upon the further advice of his looking-glass) he yielded the point,--and the beard grew--but it grew white--which was the just punishment of the gods--our sins leave their traces. 'Well, poor darling Robert won't shock you after all--you can't choose but be satisfied with his looks. M. de Monclar swore to me that he was not changed for the intermediate years. . . .' The family returned, however, to Siena for the summer of 1860, and from thence Mrs. Browning writes to her sister-in-law of her great anxiety concerning her sister Henrietta, Mrs. Surtees Cook,* then attacked by a fatal disease. * The name was afterwards changed to Altham. '. . . There is nothing or little to add to my last account of my precious Henrietta. But, dear, you think the evil less than it is--be sure that the fear is too reasonable. I am of a very hopeful temperament, and I never could go on systematically making the worst of any case. I bear up here for a few days, and then comes the expectation of a letter, which is hard. I fight with it for Robert's sake, but all the work I put myself to do does not hinder a certain effect. She is confined to her bed almost wholly and suffers acutely. . . . In fact, I am living from day to day, on the merest crumbs of hope--on the daily bread which is very bitter. Of course it has shaken me a good deal, and interfered with the advantages of the summer, but that's the least. Poor Robert's scheme for me of perfect repose has scarcely been carried out. . . .'