I think I kept it well covered, but there was a vast unrest in me, all those days. I seemed to myself wandering over the turfy slopes, and the rocks, and the sea, in search of a dream, a sweet, impalpable presence that ever eluded me. I never knew how fully dear Lizzie[6] filled my heart, until she was gone. Is it always so? But that Island is Lizzie to me, now. It was the refuge of her dreams, when she could not be there in reality. Her whole being seemed to blossom out into the immense spaces of the sea. I am glad that I have been there once again, and with only the dear brother, and you whom she loved and admired so much. For you _are_ an enchantress. It is a great gift to attract and to _hold_ as you can, and rare, even among women. To some it is a snare, but I do not believe it ever can be to you, because the large generosity of the sea was born into you. How can you help it, if your waves overblow with music, and all sorts of mysterious wealth upon others of us humans? I hope you beguiled our friend into a stay of more than the one day he spoke of. It was doing him so much good to be there, in that free and easy way; just the life he ought to lead for half the year, at least. I shall always use my meagre arts most earnestly to get him to the Island when you are there. There is such a difference in human atmospheres, you know; the petty, east-wind blighted inhabitants of towns are not good for the health of such as he. I esteem it one of the wonderful blessings of my life that he does not feel uncomfortable when I am about. With you, there is the added element of exhilaration, the rarest thing to receive, as one gets into years. It is a sacred trust, the friendship of such a man. TO MISS JEAN INGELOW. BEVERLY, MASS., December 15, 1867. MY DEAR MISS INGELOW,--It was very kind of you to write to me, and I can hardly tell you how much pleasure your letter gave me, in my at present lonely and unsettled life. I think a woman’s life is necessarily lonely, if unsettled: the home-instinct lies so deep in us. But I have never had a real home since I was a little child. I have married sisters, with whom I stay, when my work allows it, but that is not like one’s own place. I want a corner exclusively mine, in which to spin my own web and ravel it again, if I wish. I wish I could learn to think my own thoughts in the thick of other people’s lives, but I never could, and I am too old to begin now. However, there are compensations in all things, and I would not be out of reach of the happy children’s voices, which echo round me, although they will break in upon me rather suddenly, sometimes.