We had once to pass through a very uncanny trial, which may be said to have lasted from 1877 to the end of 1880, and somewhat (though in a less degree) to 1883. We suddenly began to be inundated with anonymous letters; then our private papers and writings would disappear; a great fuss of finding them was made, and when all fuss and hope of recovery was over, they would reappear. There was always some mystery hanging about, and once we found on the floor a copy-book with some very good imitations of my handwriting, or what my handwriting _would_ be if I tried to disguise it a little backwards, and some very bad and easily recognizable attempts at my husband's very peculiar hand. The anonymous letters generally tried to set us against each other, if possible, and I was always finding love-letters thrust into his pockets, whenever I cleaned or brushed his clothes, which I generally did when he was ill, in order not to have the servants in the room. Fortunately we told each other everything, and he used to carry his letters to me, and I mine to him, but we could make nothing of it. At last he said, in 1879 (when he was going away to Midian), "You must be _quite sure_ not to make yourself uncomfortable about any of this sort of thing, and to tell me everything that occurs; because I am _sure_ this is an intrigue, and a woman's intrigue, which has something to do with money. When we were poor everybody left us in peace, but ever since 1877 nothing has been talked about but the enormous riches that I am _going_ to make in these mines, and you have been offering parures of turquoise to all your friends in my name. So somebody is working to try and separate us. You keep your 'weather eye' open, and believe nothing, nor shall I, and you will see that one day or another it is bound to ooze out." It did ooze out--after it did not matter. Ever after these annoyances began, whenever we were going to make the smallest remark which might be unlucky, we always used to say, "Hush! '_IT_' will hear you;" and then we used to laugh. This became so habitual with us, that everybody else thought we were alluding to Providence, or evil spirits, or such like; but we were really alluding to our uncanny, fleshly evil genius, who, though we did not know it, was nestling close to us and heard it all. It was, therefore, with a doubly heavy heart that I saw him depart on his third and last journey for Midian, and was thankful when it was over. [Sidenote: _Camoens_.] Richard and I now went to Opçina a great deal alone, and we were working together at his Camoens, beginning at the two volumes of the "Lusiads."