To a friend Miss Barrett, assured that he never could be more, might well be generous; visits were permitted, and it was left to Browning to fix the days; the postal shuttle threw swift and swifter threads between New Cross, Hatcham, and 50 Wimpole Street.

The verse of Tennyson, the novels of George Sand were discussed; her translations from the Greek were considered; his manuscript poems were left for her corrections; but transcription must not weary him into headaches; she would herself by and by act as an amanuensis.

Each of the correspondents could not rest happy until the other had been proved to be in every intellectual and moral quality the superior.

Browning's praise could not be withheld; it seemed to his friend--and she wrote always with crystalline sincerity--to be an illusion which humbled her.

Glad memories of Italy, sad memories of England and the invalid life were exchanged; there is nothing that she can teach him--she declares--except grief.