I write to acquaint you as I’ve left Missis Grimble, being very
near with the food and a driver, and maister’s rheumatics very
awkward in sharp weather, and sons awkward also one way or
another. I’ve broke the journey at Sarn. I may say Gideon and me
think to be married come Harvest Home. I may say I be very glad,
for when you do love anybody you want to be with them and canna
rest, nights, wondering where they be, and if all’s well, and if
they change their stockings when damp, and if they be lonesome
ever.
I be more choice of him I love than of all else in the world
beside.
He be so kind and so brave, and when he be there I can but say,
“The maister be come.”
I love him past telling, and shall to the end, and so good
night, Mister Woodseaves, and a merry Christmas, from