"After reading my letter, you even then wish to see me. I am strong enough to walk over: but I dare not--I shall feel so much pain in parting with you again. My dearest love, I am afraid to see you: I am strong, but not strong enough to see you. Will my arm be ever round you again, and, if so, shall I be obliged to leave you again? "My sweet love, I am happy whilst I believe your first letter. Let me be but certain that you are mine heart and soul, and I could die more happily than I could otherwise live. If you think me cruel, if you think I have slighted you, do muse it over again, and see into my heart. My love to you is 'true as truth's simplicity, and simpler than the infancy of truth'--as I think I once said before. How could I slight you? how threaten to leave you? Not in the spirit of a threat to you--no, but in the spirit of wretchedness in myself. My fairest, my delicious, my angel Fanny, do not believe me such a vulgar fellow. I will be as patient in illness and as believing in love as I am able." (III.) (This is the last letter of the series. Its date is uncertain; but may, as already intimated, be towards July 10, 1820. It follows next after our No. 2.) "My dearest Girl,--I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth. I feel it almost impossible to go to Italy. The fact is, I cannot leave you, and shall never taste one minute's content until it pleases chance to let me live with you for good. But I will not go on at this rate. A person in health, as you are, can have no conception of the horrors that nerves and a temper like mine go through. "What island do your friends propose retiring to? I should be happy to go with you there alone, but in company I should object to it: the backbitings and jealousies of new colonists, who have nothing else to amuse themselves, is unbearable. Mr. Dilke came to see me yesterday, and gave me a very great deal more pain than pleasure. I shall never be able any more to endure the society of any of those who used to meet at Elm Cottage[8] and Wentworth Place. The last two years taste like brass upon my palate. If I cannot live with you, I will live alone. "I do not think my health will improve much while I am separated from you. For all this, I am averse to seeing you: I cannot bear flashes of light, and return into my glooms again. I am not so unhappy now as I should be if I had seen you yesterday. To be happy with you seems such an impossibility: it requires a luckier star than mine--it will never be. "I enclose a passage from one of your letters which I want you to alter a little: I want (if you will have it so) the matter expressed less coldly to me.