_R.B. to E.B.B._
Monday Morning.
[Post-mark, December 15, 1845.]
Every word you write goes to my heart and lives there: let us live so,
and die so, if God will. I trust many years hence to begin telling you
what I feel now;--that the beam of the light will have _reached_
you!--meantime it _is_ here. Let me kiss your forehead, my sweetest,
dearest.
Wednesday I am waiting for--how waiting for!
After all, it seems probable that there was no intentional mischief in
that jeweller's management of the ring. The divided gold must have
been exposed to fire--heated thoroughly, perhaps,--and what became of
the contents then! Well, all is safe now, and I go to work again of
course. My next act is just done--that is, _being_ done--but, what I
did not foresee, I cannot bring it, copied, by Wednesday, as my sister
went this morning on a visit for the week.
On the matters, the others, I will not think, as you bid me,--if I can
help, at least. But your kind, gentle, good sisters! and the provoking
sorrow of the _right_ meaning at bottom of the wrong doing--wrong to
itself and its plain purpose--and meanwhile, the real tragedy and
sacrifice of a life!
If you should see Mr. Kenyon, and can find if he will be disengaged on
Wednesday evening, I shall be glad to go in that case.
But I have been writing, as I say, and will leave off this, for the
better communing with you. Don't imagine I am unwell; I feel quite
well, but a little tired, and the thought of you waits in such
readiness! So, may God bless you, beloved!