He is very fond of me—almost too fond. I could do with less caressing and more rationality: I should like to be less of a pet and more of a friend, if I might choose—but I won’t complain of that: I am only afraid his affection loses in depth where it gains in ardour. I sometimes liken it to a fire of dry twigs and branches compared with one of solid coal,—very bright and hot, but if it should burn itself out and leave nothing but ashes behind, what shall I do? But it won’t—it shan’t, I am determined—and surely I have power to keep it alive.
