Dearest: It was so nice and comedy to see the Mother-Aunt this
morning importantly opening a letter from you all to herself with the
pleasure quite unmixed by any inclosure for me, or any other letter in
the house _to_ me so far as she was aware. I listened to you with new
ears, discovering that you write quite beautifully in the style which I
never get from you. Don't, because I admire you in your more formal
form, alter in your style to me. I prefer you much, for my own part,
formless: and feel nearer to your heart in an unfinished sentence than
in one that is perfectly balanced. Still I want you to know that your
cordial warmed her dear old heart and makes her not think now that she
has let me see too much of you. She was just beginning to worry herself
jealously into that belief the last two days: and Arthur's taking to you
helped to the same end. Very well; I seem to understand everybody's
oddities now,--having made a complete study of yours.
Best Beloved, I have your little letter lying close, and feel dumb when
I try to answer. You with your few words make me feel a small thing with
all my unpenned rabble about me. Only you do know so very well that I
love you better than I can ever write. This is my first letter of the
new year: will our letter-writing go on all this year, or will it, as we
dearly dream, die a divine death somewhere before autumn?
In any case, I am, dearest, your most happy and loving.