_Dearest Heart_,
Thy letter to my sisters was most beautiful--sweet, gentle, and
magnanimous; such as no angel save my Dove, could have written. If
they do not love thee, it will be because they have no hearts to love
with;--and even if this were the case, I should not despair of thy
planting the seeds of hearts in their bosoms. They will love thee, all
in good time, dearest; and we will be very happy. I am so at this
moment, while my breast heaves with the consciousness of what a
treasure God has given me--in whom I see more to worship, and admire,
and love, every day of my life; and shall see more and more as long as
I live; else, it will be because my own nature retrogrades, instead of
advancing. But thou wilt make me better and better, till I am even
worthy to be thy husband.
Oh, truest wife, what a long widowhood is this! Three evenings without
a glimpse of thee! And I know not whether I am to come at six or
seven o'clock tomorrow evening--or scarcely, indeed, whether I am to
come at all. But, unless thou orderest me to the contrary, I shall
come at seven o'clock.
I met Mr. Emerson at the Athenaeum yesterday. He tells me that our
garden, &c., makes fine progress. Would that we were there. God bless
us.