Jan. 20, 18—.
My dear Barbara:—Until I went away and began to receive your letters I never knew what a real letter was like. When I was at college, father wrote me a weekly sermon, and mother sent pages of don'ts. They are doing the same now, but you send me what I need—cheerfulness and encouragement.
My work continues to be interesting, though hard, but hard work is what I need, too. Until now, I never knew how satisfying it could be. I never knew what it was to feel like a man until I began the struggle urged on by love for a good woman.
From your letters I have received the impression that my native town is being stirred up in a manner that must be a revelation to the inhabitants who have been asleep for so many years. If the Morning Glories never do anything else they will have accomplished a great deal. I know that you will be splendid in your part, and hope to be able to come down to see you, but cannot be sure until the last moment.
I have resumed my evening studies and take much pleasure in them.
Since I have been here I have attended church regularly—something that I have not done since I was physically big enough to refuse—and please don't laugh when I confess that I enjoy the service very much.
The sermons are different from any that I have ever heard before. The clergyman seems to be talking to me, about clean thoughts and right living. And when the service is over I feel stronger and better, and that the world is a beautiful place. It is beautiful, Barbara, because you are in it. Each day I long so much to see you. What is there that I would not give for one moment in your presence? As it is, your letters are my life.
Will.