“Will the generous and unselfish preserver of my life do me the favor to call this evening at our parlor, No.—, that I may unburden my heart of its gratitude, and offer a hecatomb of thanks to his self-sacrificing spirit. Call at eight.
Waiting.”
In much smaller writing, just beneath this, were some verses, as usual, across which she had drawn her pen, as if to erase them, taking care, however, to leave them sufficiently legible—
“But for thy hand I might have slept
Deep in the bosom of yon lake,
And no one for me would have wept,
And none have wished that I might wake.”
That’s the first sensible poetry you ever wrote, I muttered, as I read it. But there was more:
“I would not shun the wild waves’ wrath,
Could we sink clasping hand in hand,