I went to church last Sunday; there's a confession! Another such act of cowardice, and I am lost. It never entered my head, of course, to go the first Sunday I was here; and as it so happened that I had a headache that day, no comment was made upon my absence. But on Saturday the vicar said something about "to-morrow"; Uncle George invited himself to dinner after service; and when Aunt Caroline asked me, at breakfast on Sunday, what hat I was going to put on, I replied, "The small one," and followed her like a lamb. I don't know what to do now. This afternoon, the good little old lady asked me to call with her on a friend whose father died last week, and I went, Heaven knows why. I was well served out. There they sat a mortal hour, blowing their noses and praising their God, until I could have shrieked. When I had safely seen Aunt Caroline home, I set off for a long walk in the gloaming; the silent earth was stretched in peace beneath the deepening sky, the moon rose among great clouds that floated like dragons' ghosts upon the blue. And I cried out within myself for very pain that I who had perception of these things should live so lying and so false a life. Perhaps I am not quite myself yet; so much sorrow came to me at once that all my strength has left me. But it is cowardly to make excuses. I hear you: "There you go, old wise-bones! Here's a storm in a tea-cup! It's much better to behave properly _out_side anyway, than to hurt people's feelings and make them think worse of you than they need, by showing them what a wicked infidel you are. Besides, what does it matter?" Little one, do you remember how we shocked each other that Christmas morning in Florence, when we made a round of the churches together? I can see you still, you pretty thing, crossing yourself at the door of Santa Maria Novella. With all the strictness of my nineteen years I was simply horrified. "Constance!" I cried, "what on earth are you doing?" "I don't like to be left in the cold," you replied; "if there are any blessings going, I may as well have my share." "But, dearest," said I, "you don't believe in it!" "Of course I don't, but it may be true, for all that; how do we know? Do let me enjoy myself, you dear old granny! The stale water may not do me any good, but it won't do me any harm either, now will it?" Oh, dear, how the smell of the church comes back with the remembered words! It was a long time ago. Dear and sweet one, I must not think of you too much, I long for you so. Yours in endless love, EMILIA. LETTER VI. FLETCHER'S HALL, August 12th.