LETTER XXXVIII.
April 7.
Here I am at H——, on the wing towards you, and I write now, only to tell you that you may expect me in the course of three or four days; for I shall not attempt to give vent to the different emotions which agitate my heart—You may term a feeling, which appears to me to be a degree of delicacy that naturally arises from sensibility, pride—Still I cannot indulge the very affectionate tenderness which glows in my bosom, without trembling, till I see by your eyes, that it is mutual.
I sit, lost in thought, looking at the sea—and tears rush into my eyes, when I find that I am cherishing any fond expectations. I have indeed been so unhappy this winter, I find it as difficult to acquire fresh hopes, as to regain tranquillity. Enough of this—lie still, foolish heart! But for the little girl, I could almost wish that it should cease to beat, to be no more alive to the anguish of disappointment.
Sweet little creature! I deprived myself of my only pleasure, when I weaned her about ten days ago. I am however glad I conquered my repugnance. It was necessary it should be done soon, and I did not wish to embitter the renewal of your acquaintance with her, by putting it off till we met. It was a painful exertion to me, and I thought it best to throw this inquietude with the rest, into the sack that I would fain throw over my shoulder. I wished to endure it alone, in short—Yet, after sending her to sleep in the next room for three or four nights, you cannot think with what joy I took her back again to sleep in my bosom!
I suppose I shall find you when I arrive, for I do not see any necessity for you coming to me. Pray inform Mr. ——, that I have his little friend with me. My wishing to oblige him, made me put myself to some inconvenience——and delay my departure; which was irksome to me, who have not quite as much philosophy, I would not for the world say indifference, as you. God bless you!
Yours truly
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