H—, Thursday Morning, March 12.
We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was
sorry, childishly so, for your going, when I knew that you were to stay
such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not
sleep.—I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of
the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish
about; but all would not do.—I took nevertheless my walk before
breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting—and here I am,
wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I
write, with one of your kindest looks—when your eyes glisten, and a
suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.
But I do not mean to dally with you this morning—So God bless you! Take
care of yourself and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate.
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