Did you really go out yesterday? I was not sure, for the wind was Easterly—but it appears to have done you no harm,—you may ‘go into the street’ to-day—I am most happy,—most happy—and always entirely happy in you,—in thinking of you, and hoping,—my life is in you now—

Bless you, dearest—I am your own.

2 o’clock, the parcel arrives ... thank you, best of Ba’s! I will read and tell you—(only what on earth do you mean by sending back those sketches?)

R.B. to E.B.B.

Sunday Morning.
[Post-mark, May 25, 1846.]

My own Ba is entreated to observe, that when she sends me reviews about herself, and songs by herself, and a make-weight book about ‘Junius’ happens to be sent also ... I do not ordinarily plunge into the Junius-discussion at once—perhaps from having made up my mind that the Author is Miss Campbell:—at all events, while the review was read and re-read and the music done justice and injustice to, the Junius was opened for the first time this morning, at eight of the clock, and Ba’s letter which lay between pages 16 and 17, ‘came to hand’—was brought to me by my mother, from my father! but for whose lucky inspiration of curiosity the said note had perhaps lain shut in till the book’s secret was found out ... certainly I should never have touched the book before then! And from this note, duly studied, I learn that yesterday I must have appeared to Ba touched by a general mental paralysis—inasmuch as I was surprised, over and above the joyfulness, to hear that she was in the Park on Thursday, as well as Friday ... (oh, I know the letter I did receive mentioned it, but it seems as if one of the two excursions were unrecorded)—and seeing that I enquired whether Ba had heard with her own ears the song ... and altogether omitted thanking her for the gift of it: and lastly, brought no Statesmen, even on Ba’s request! Of all which matters I ought to have been made acquainted by the note: what must you think of me, you Ba; dearest-dearest, that expect me to know the face through the bonnet, and the letter through the book covers—(Ba sitting in the Bookseller’s shop was a type, I see!). What did you think of me yesterday, I want to know?

Well, and now my letter does come I thank you—(for all the trouble this precedent will give me—next time a parcel comes—of poking into all impossible places to see and to see!). You are the dearest, dearest, impossibly dear Ba that heart ever adored,

‘And the roses which thou strowest,

All the cheerful way thou goest,

Would direct to follow thee,’