But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear I would not part with if I might.
I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon it—a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it, dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.—When I see you so, I feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words.
Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout.
"Night-night!" Your true sleepy one.
LETTER VIII.
Now why, I want to know, Beloved, was I so specially "good" to you in my last? I have been quite as good to you fifty times before,—if such a thing can be from me to you. Or do you mean good for you? Then, dear, I must be sorry that the thing stands out so much as an exception!
Oh, dearest Beloved, for a little I think I must not love you so much, or must not let you see it.
When does your mother return, and when am I to see her? I long to so much. Has she still not written to you about our news?