lovelier on farther knowing. Mr. Browning gave me a pomegranate bud from Casa Guidi Windows, to press in my memorial book. . . . The finest light gleams from Mrs. Browning's arched eyes—for she has those arched eyes so unusual, with an intellectual, spiritual radiance in them. They are sapphire, with dark lashes, shining from out a bower of curling, very dark, but, I think, not black hair. It is sad to see such deep pain furrowed into her face—such pain that the great happiness of her life cannot smooth it away. In moments of rest from speaking her countenance reminds one of those mountain sides, ploughed deep with spent water-torrents, there are traces in it of so much grief, so much suffering. The angelic spirit, triumphing at moments, restores the even surface. How has anything so delicate braved the storms? Her soul is mighty, and a great love has kept her on earth a season longer. She is a seraph in her flaming worship of heart, while a calm, cherubic knowledge sits enthroned on her large brow. How she remains visible to us, with so little admixture of earth, is a mystery; but fortunate are the eyes that see her, and the ears that hear her."
On the 2nd July the Brownings left Florence for France, intending to spend the remainder of the summer in Normandy, and, pathetically exclaims Mrs. Hawthorne, "there seems to be nobody in Florence now for us!"
