Sunday Morning.
I wrote to you yesterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is still
detained (for his passport was forgotten at the office yesterday) I am
not willing to let so many days elapse without your hearing from me,
after having talked of illness and apprehensions.
I cannot boast of being quite recovered, yet I am (I must use my
Yorkshire phrase; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expressions
of childhood into my head) so _lightsome_, that I think it will not _go
badly with me_.—And nothing shall be wanting on my part, I assure you;
for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a
new-born tenderness that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the
greater part of yesterday; and, if I get over this evening without a
return of the fever that has tormented me, I shall talk no more of
illness. I have promised the little creature, that its mother, who ought
to cherish it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me;
and, since I could not hug either it or you to my breast, I have to my
heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your
eye.
I have been seriously vexed, to find that, whilst you were harrassed by
impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional
uneasiness.—If you can make any of your plans answer—it is well, I do
not think a little money inconvenient; but, should they fail, we will
struggle cheerfully together—drawn closer by the pinching blasts of
poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters;
for I not only like them for being longer, but because more heart steals
into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours sincerely
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