Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he
was detained by business. It commenced, "My dearest love, return as
soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures." A friend who
arrived, brought word, that, for certain reasons, he could not return
immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded, and the same evening
it fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled. She asked the reason.
"What a heavenly treasure is imagination:" I exclaimed; "I fancied for a
moment that this was written to me." She paused, and seemed displeased.
I was silent.