"He told us of the sad news of Mrs. Browning's death. Poor Browning! That was my first, and remains my constant reflection. When people love each other and have lived together any time they ought to die together. For myself I should not care in the least about dying. The dreadful thing to me would be to live after losing, if I should ever lose, the one who has made life for me. Of course you who all knew and valued her will feel the loss, but I cannot think of anybody's grief but his. "The next page must be left for Polly's postscript, so I shall only send my kindest regards and wishes to Mrs. Trollope and the biggest of kisses to _la cantatrice_" [my poor girl Bice!]. "Ever faithfully yours, "G.H. LEWES." * * * * * "DEAR MRS. TROLLOPE,--While I am reading _La Beata_ I constantly feel as if Mr. Trollope were present telling it all to me _vivâ voce_. It seems to me more thoroughly and fully like himself than any of his other books. And in spite of our having had the most of his society away from you" [on our Camaldoli excursion] "you are always part of his presence to me in a hovering aerial fashion. So it seems quite natural that a letter addressed to him should have a postscript addressed to you. Pray reckon it amongst the good you do in this world, that you come very often into our thoughts and conversation. We see comparatively so few people that we are apt to recur to recollections of those we like best with almost childish frequency, and a little fresh news about you would be a welcome variety, especially the news that you had quite shaken off that spine indisposition which was still clinging to you that last morning when we said our good-byes. We have enough knowledge about you and your world to interpret all the details you can give us. But our words about our own home doings would be very vague and colourless to you. You must always imagine us coming to see you and wanting to know as much about you as we can, and like a charming hostess gratify that want. I must thank you for the account of Cavour in _The Athenaeum_, which stirred me strongly. I am afraid I have what _The Saturday Review_ would call 'a morbid delight in deathbeds'--not having reached that lofty superiority which considers it bad taste to allude to them. "How is Beatrice, the blessed and blessing? That will always be a history to interest us--how her brown hair darkens, how her voice deepens and strengthens, and how you get more and more delight in her. I need send no separate message to Mr. Trollope, before I say that "I am always yours, with lively remembrance, "MARION E. LEWES." * * * * * It needed George Eliot's fine and minute handwriting to put all this into one page of note-paper. The next letter that came from Blandford Square, dated 9th December, 1861, was also a joint one, the larger portion of which however is from her pen. * * * * *