accompany me, though she was pressed to come. I am going home to-
morrow, delighted at the thought, grateful to the good Musgrave, in
a more normal frame of mind than I have been for months.



February 28, 1889.


One of the most depressing things about my present condition is
that I feel, not only so useless, but so prickly, so ugly, so
unlovable. Even Maud's affection, stronger and more tender than
ever, does not help me, because I feel that she cannot love me for
what I am, but for what she remembers me as being, and hopes that I
may be again. I know it is not so, and that she would love me
whatever I did or became; but I cannot realise that now.

A few days ago an old friend came to see me; and I was so futile,
so fractious, so dull, so melancholy with him that I wrote to him
afterwards to apologise for my condition, telling him that I knew
that I was not myself, and hoped he would forgive me for not making
more of an effort. To-day I have had one of the manliest,
tenderest, most beautiful letters I have ever had in my life. He
says, "Of course I saw that you were not in your usual mood, but if
you had pretended to be, if you had kept me at arm's length, if you
had grimaced and made pretence, we should have been no nearer in
spirit. I was proud and grateful that you should so have trusted
me, as to let me see into your heart and mind; and you must believe
me when I say that I never loved and honoured you more. I
understood fully what a deep and insupportable trial your present