Oh! my God! my God!--has it not filled all my days and nights for eight years?
And now I see him so no more.

I see him always carried in the arms of dim majestic forms--wrapped close and warm.

Sometimes the face that bends over him is that of some great Giotto angel--sometimes, so dim and faint! the pure Mother herself--sometimes the Hands that fold him in are marred.

Is it the associations of Rome--the images with which this work with Edward fills my mind?
Perhaps.
'But at least I am strangely comforted--some kind hand seems to be drawing the smart from the deep deep wound.

Little golden-head! you lie soft and safe, but often you seem to me to turn your dear eyes--the baby-eyes that still know all--to look out over the bar of heaven--to search for me--to bid me be at peace, _at last_.
'February 20.