All day in the store, and then the long evening in my room alone, that is my outward life. And my inward life—it is you, only you, for I think of you all the time.
The rush of business is increasing as the holiday season draws near; such hurrying, scurrying crowds of people, and only one little girl in all the wide world that I want. And my arms ache for her to-night.
Eva, dear, your last letter is worn quite to tatters from being carried in my pocket and pulled out for frequent re-reading. You would laugh if you could see it, and take pity on me and write me a new one.
Tell me, darling, what you are doing. Have you finished reading Romola? Do you like it! Are you keeping up your practicing? Did you have a good time at the sleighing party? Who was there? A regular string of questions, isn't it? You know everything you write interests me, and I like the little details most of all. Your letters are little fragments of you. I kiss them and treasure them most sacredly. O darlingest, dearest girl, I love you and long for you. Tell me, dear, can't you feel me loving you even though you are so far away? And do you love me? I like to have you say so. And how much? But, ah! you are too far away. I can't hold you until you laugh and have to tell.
Every night and every morning I thank God that I have found the dearest, truest girl that ever was, and that she has given me her promise to be mine. Dearest, I think of it every hour. Nothing can ever separate us. Am wholly, wholly yours, and you are mine to love and cherish.
With a heart full of devotion,
Yours ever,
Alfred Hinman.
238. Answer to the Above.
M——, December 16, 19—.
Dear Alfred:—