an interview, and requested him to withdraw from her presence, not attempting any response to his proposal, which she could not believe in earnest. Of course he withdrew from her sight, but not to withdraw the offer of his heart and hand; _au contraire_, to repeat it by letter, and in such wise as to convince her how “dead in earnest” he was. Her own heart, touched already when she knew it not, was this time fain to listen, be convinced, and overcome. But here began the “tug of war.” As a filial daughter, Elizabeth told her father of the poet’s love, of the poet’s love in return, and asked a parent’s blessing to crown their happiness. At first, incredulous of the strange story, he mocked her; but when the truth flashed on him, from the new fire in her eyes, he kindled with rage, and forbade her ever seeing or communicating with her lover again, on the penalty of disinheritance and banishment forever from a father’s love. This decision was founded on no dislike for Mr. Browning personally, or anything in him, or his family; it was simply arbitrary. But the new love was stronger than the old in her--it conquered. On wings it flew to her beloved, who had perched on her window, and thence bore her away from the fogs of England to a nest under Italian skies. The nightingale who had long sung in the dark, with “her breast against a thorne,” now changed into a lark--morning had come--singing for very joy, and at heaven’s gate, which has since opened to let her in. [Sidenote: An unreasonable father.] The unnatural father kept his vow, and would never be reconciled to his daughter, of whom he was not worthy; though she ceased not her endearing efforts to find her way to his heart again; ever fearing that he, or she, might die without the bond of forgiveness having reunited them. Always cherishing an undiminished love for her only parent, this banishment from him wore on her, notwithstanding the rich compensation of such a husband’s devotion, and the new maternal love which their golden-haired boy awakened. What she feared came upon her. Her father died without leaving her even his pardon, and her feeble _physique_ never quite recovered from the shock. Few witnessed the strong grief of that morally strong woman. I saw her after her first wrestling with the angel of sorrow, and perceived that with the calm token of his blessing, still she dragged a maimed life. ELIZABETH C. KINNEY: ‘A Day with the Brownings at Patrolino,’ in _Scribner’s Magazine_, now _The Century_, December, 1870. * * * * * [Sidenote: Her death.]