December 6th.
The snow is on the ground; 'tis a beautiful white world. Yet to-day
has been a dull day. I had my lesson yesterday. I spent the whole of
this afternoon preparing a list of Christmas charities, in which
Aunt Caroline and Ida Seymour helped me, good souls. I can think of
nothing but flannel this evening. That is a lie, by the way; I
almost wish it were not. Yesterday Gabriel and I had an adventure. I
was walking part of the way back with him and Jane Norton, who had
been taking tea with my old ladies, and as we went past a cottage,
just off the lane, we heard fearful screams. Gabriel sprang in, I
following, and there we found a woman beating a little girl with a
broom. Gabriel's eyes were like fire; he caught the child in one
hand, the broom in the other; I thought he meant to bring it down on
the woman's back. We stayed there some time, he lecturing the
mother, I consoling the poor mite. She was wretchedly clad; I shall
bring her some clothes to-morrow.
I am dull. I meant to write you a long letter, but somehow I can't.
Farewell until to-morrow.
December 13th.
What will you be thinking of me? Your silence is almost more
unbearable than a letter of reproach would be; I had not realised
until I found the above fragment in my desk just now, how miserably
long it is since last I wrote to you. Write to me, my dearest; I
need to feel your love. I think I am not very well just now; you
must forgive me, yet don't be anxious on my account. I don't feel
very well, that's all; there is nothing the matter with me. Neither
is there anything to tell you; all goes on as usual. Gabriel is
well.
Oh, my pretty Constance, I cannot write! I shall send off this
miserable scrap, and write again very soon.
Your poor fool,
EMILIA.