I dreamed lately that I followed a mystic woman down a long suite of palatial rooms. She was in white, with a white mask, on her head the likeness of a crown. I knew she was Italy, but I couldn't see through the mask. All through my illness political dreams have repeated themselves, in inscrutable articles of peace and eternal provisional governments. Walking on the mountains of the moon, hand in hand with a Dream more beautiful than them all, then falling suddenly on the hard earth-ground on one's head, no wonder that one should suffer. Oh, Isa, the tears are even now in my eyes to think of it!
And yet I have hope, and the more I consider, the more I hope.
There will be no intervention to interfere with us in Tuscany, and there is something better behind, which we none of us see yet.
We read to-day of the Florence elections. May God bless my Florence!
Dearest Isa, don't you fancy that you will get off with a day and night here. No, indeed. Also, I would rather you waited till I could talk, and go out, and enjoy you properly; and just now I am a mere rag of a Ba hung on a chair to be out of the way.
Robert is so very kind as to hear Pen's lessons, which keeps me easy about the child.
Heat we have had and have; but there's a great quantity of air—such blowings as you boast of at your villa—and I like this good open air and the quiet. I have seen nobody yet....
Dearest Isa, I miss you, and love you. How perfect you are to me always.
Robert's true love, with Pen's. And I may send my love to Miss Field, may I not?
Yours, in tender affection,