P.S. 2. In answer to yours. Gabriel is not so inconsistent as you suppose, nor is Emilia. We have made a provision to which you, Constance Norris, shall bear witness. Namely this: that, in accordance with the absolute Sincerity and Truthfulness which we believe to be not only possible, but necessary to the Conduct of a Noble Life, we have solemnly promised each other to confess the truth, should we at any future period--through altered Love or other causes--consider Mutual Life inconsistent with perfect Honesty. There! We have worded that beautifully, I think, although Gabriel insists that "Mutual Life" is an incorrect expression. I don't care; it says what I mean. Needless to add that, in our case, such a prevision is as good as superfluous, but we feel bound to act up to our principles! LETTER XXX. GRAYSMILL, February 19th. Beloved, we wrote you a few lines together this afternoon, but I must write again, I alone, to thank you for your letter and tell you all you ask to know. Yet, indeed, I know not what to tell you. I am happy; the sun is in my heart. I tried to write to you before, but the words failed me; besides--my own self is a stranger to me. This marvel of marvels, a perfectly happy woman, has nothing in common with Emilia Fletcher, as you and I have known her. I believe that Lethe was Joy's well. The past has floated from me like a bank of mist, I stand flooded in light. And if I look behind me I see nothing. Two phantoms merely,--my love for my mother, my love for you,--all else is gone. Where are they now, the clouds that pressed so close upon me? Three words, and lo! the sky is clear. I have even forgotten what it felt like to stand there in the gloom with breaking heart. We have made no plans yet; that is to say, we have made so many that choice between them is impossible. Still, although we build fresh castles in the air each time we meet, they all float towards Italy, in the springtime, halting a while where Constance is. If, indeed, there be a cloud remaining in my heaven, it is that you two, my soul's monarchs, know each other only through the medium of my love. My eyes long to hold you both; I want to walk in the body, as I do in the spirit, clasping a hand of each. And to think that she is dead! Shall I tell you something very strange, almost inconceivable? I cannot help feeling as if she knew. Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child. Good night, my dear little one. EMILIA. LETTER XXXI. GRAYSMILL, February 24th.