KARL TO DORA. GREENFIELD, IOWA, march 15. MY DEAR COUSIN,--
YOURS of the 10th duly received, and as welcome as your letters
always are. So you have seen the kingdoms of the world and the glory
thereof, and find that all is vanity, as saith the Preacher. Do not
imagine that I am studying divinity instead of medicine; but to-day
is Sunday, and I have been twice to meeting, and taken tea with the
minister besides.
But to return to our mutton. Nothing could be more delightful, or,
on the whole, more probable to me, than your decision to return to
Outpost, instead of settling in Boston or New York. I can hardly
fancy my cousin Dora changed into a fine lady, and fretting herself
thin over the color of ribbon, or the trail of a skirt; and I am not
surprised that she finds what is called "society" puzzling and
wearisome. Your life, Dora, began upon too wide a plan to bear
narrowing down into conventional limits now; and I feel through my
own heart the thrill with which you wrote the words,--
"I long for the opportunity of action and usefulness; I long for the
freedom of the prairie, and the dignity of labor; I long to resume
my old life, and to see my husband begin his new one."
But, to be quite frank, I was a little surprised that Mr. Burroughs
should enter so heartily into your plan of resuming the farm. To be
sure, I suppose the land-agency, and the practice of his profession,
will occupy most of his time; and his principal concern with the
estate will be to admire your able management of it. You and he, my
dear Dora, seem to form not only a mutual-admiration, but a
mutual-encouragement and mutual-assistance society; and I wish my
partnership with Dr. Gershom was half as satisfactory an
arrangement.
Yesterday, after receiving your letter, I rode directly to Outpost,
and communicated your wishes to Seth and Mehitable. The former threw
the chip he was whittling into the fire, and said,--
"Miss Burroughs coming back? Waal, then, I'll stop; but I own,
doctor, I wouldn't ha' done it ef she hadn't. It's took all the
heart out o' the place, her bein' gone so."
And Mehitable and he joined in a chorus of praises and
reminiscences, which, pleasant though I found it, I will not put you
to the blush by repeating. Both, however, promised faithfully that
the house and farm should be ready for you by the middle of April;
and Seth says he can take hold "right smart" at helping put up the
new house, as he was "raised a carpenter," in part at least.
You ask about me, my dear cousin; but what have I to tell? I work
hard at my profession, and take nearly all the night-practice off
Dr. Gershom's hands; so I have very little leisure for any thing
besides: and you say to be useful is to be happy; so I suppose I am
happy; but, if I may be allowed the suggestion, it is rather a
negative kind of bliss, and will be decidedly augmented when Outpost
is once again open to me as a second home (I assure you I shall be a
frequent visitor), and when Burroughs comes to occupy an office
beside my own.
As for the rumor of my engagement to Sarah Gershom, it is quite
unfounded. I am not thinking of marrying at present.
A letter from Kitty, received a few days since, brings very
satisfactory accounts of her progress in learning and in life. She
is as happy as possible in her engagement to Frank Brown, and
improves, under his tuition, beyond my wildest hopes. She has a
strong nature and a deep heart, has Kitty; and I believe Brown
understands and can guide them both. Kitty tells me, also, that
Theodore Ginniss is taking high honors in his class, and is one of
the most promising fellows at Antioch College. He will yet become
man of mark, and Mrs. Legrange may well be proud of her protg.
Give her my regards, please; and a thousand kisses to Dolce, whom I
thank most humbly for her kind message to her poor old Karlo. I hope
to see her again in my little vacation next summer. Remember me,
too, most kindly to your husband, upon whose coming to Greenfield I
am depending a good deal, as I do not suffer, like you, from too
much society; and I shall be glad to associate with one man who does
not chew tobacco, or sit in the house with his hat on.
And now, dear Dora, good-night, and good-by for a little while.
Always your affectionate cousin,
KARL.
THE END.