Sunday Night.
I have just received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed
tranquilly without saying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that
my mind is serene, and my heart affectionate.
Ever since you last saw me inclined to faint, I have felt some gentle
twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nourishing a creature
who will soon be sensible of my care.—This thought has not only produced
an overflowing of tenderness to you, but made me very attentive to calm
my mind and take exercise, lest I should destroy an object, in whom we
are to have a mutual interest, you know. Yesterday—do not smile!—finding
that I had hurt myself by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I
sat down in an agony, till I felt those said twitches again.
Are you very busy?
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So you may reckon on its being finished soon, though not before you come
home, unless you are detained longer than I now allow myself to believe
you will.—
Be that as it may, write to me, my best love, and bid me be
patient—kindly—and the expressions of kindness will again beguile the
time, as sweetly as they have done to-night.—Tell me also over and over
again, that your happiness (and you deserve to be happy!) is closely
connected with mine, and I will try to dissipate, as they rise, the
fumes of former discontent, that have too often clouded the sunshine,
which you have endeavoured to diffuse through my mind. God bless you!
Take care of yourself, and remember with tenderness your affectionate
* * * *
I am going to rest very happy, and you have made me so.—This is the
kindest good night I can utter.