I joined the Cherubini Choral Society here; we are singing some lovely things of Bach’s and one of Mozart’s. I believe we are to give our first concert on the 18th.... The anemones are quite wonderful. I gathered on Sunday every imaginable shade of purple, from blue to crimson; such a bunch they made, so soft and deep in their gradations.

I hardly dare, even now, to write of home. I think of it as little as I can; the abiding sense of it in all its preciousness, and the heart-hunger for it never leaves me for a moment, but I try to pretend to myself that the things here are very engrossing and sufficient; and in a way they are. I have put aside the question of possible wants of one and another which I might satisfy, sure that I shall some day have a richer store of help to pour out for them, if I am (as I now believe I am) gathering strength. Every word mentioning the dear English people is precious. I glance down the letters for proper names very eagerly; you are all too good about writing, but there are necessarily so many you never mention ... and oh so many of the tenants and playground children ... and I always want more and more about the people you mention. Do you not mean to send me Ruskin’s letters to you? I should like to see them. I fancied perhaps you did not send them, because you thought they would make me gloomy; if they are gloomy—or might somehow pain me;—but they would not. I know him too well for that, and I should like to see them.

I have been reading Browning’s “Rabbi Ben Ezra.” I think it one of the truest things he, or anyone else, has ever written.

Miranda’s letters are so delightful. Her fun always touches me somehow, and never too much.... So my pride is to be broken every way, and even those proudly triumphant P. P. accounts are to get into a mess.

I am much honoured by dear Mr. Maurice’s interest about my return; I see S. Ursula[[60]] never got back; but I think I must give up all claim to the name, if it depended on the 11,000 virgins; tho’ the number swells now even here.

Via de Serragli,

January 24th, 1868.

To Emily.

WALK WITH CHILDREN NEAR FLORENCE

I seize the time when I am bright and hopeful to write to you dear ones at home; and for once will tell you facts not feelings. I have just returned from my visit to the S.’s. It has been very delightful.... M. is full of will and temper, and, not understanding any English, would be wholly unmanageable by me; and I keep a good deal away from her. But the others, strangely enough, have attached themselves warmly to me; and there seems no end to the amusements I can think of for them; and I have so enjoyed it. They are not the least tiring children, partly because they are quiet; partly, I fancy, because I have not to try to do other things too, but give my whole thought to them. It is so soothing to feel the dear little hands in mine, and see the sweet upturned faces. Besides, it is nice to get on with children. I don’t like the things I can’t do. We three wandered out into the quiet poderes which are all round. We turned even away from the view of Florence over to the quiet distances. I set the children gathering daisies to make chains to decorate the dolls’ house for a doll’s birthday which I proposed; and suddenly we came upon a large purple wild anemone. The view was English in colouring, for it has been grey and rainy, but all so wholly different on earth that no sameness of sky or light made it speak to one even in the same language, of which I am always glad. The children were full of delight with their walk. It was so nice going with me, they said.