I do not know how I fell into theſe reflections, excepting one thought produced it—that theſe continual ſeparations were neceſſary to warm your affection.—Of late, we are always ſeparating.—Crack!—crack!—and away you go.—This joke wears the ſallow caſt of thought; for, though I began to write cheerfully, ſome melancholy tears have found their way into my eyes, that linger there, whilſt a glow of tenderneſs at my heart whiſpers that you are one of the beſt creatures in the world.—Pardon then the vagaries of a mind, that has been almoſt "crazed by care," as well as "croſſed in hapleſs love," and bear with me a little longer!—When we are ſettled in the country together, more duties will open before me, and my heart, which now, trembling into peace, is agitated by every emotion that awakens the remembrance of old griefs, will learn to reſt on yours, with that dignity your character, not to talk of my own, demands.
Take care of yourſelf—and write ſoon to your own girl (you may add dear, if you pleaſe) who ſincerely loves you, and will try to convince you of it, by becoming happier.
* * * *
LETTER V
Sunday Night.
I have juſt received your letter, and feel as if I could not go to bed tranquilly without ſaying a few words in reply—merely to tell you, that my mind is ſerene, and my heart affectionate.
Ever ſince you laſt ſaw me inclined to faint, I have felt ſome gentle twitches, which make me begin to think, that I am nouriſhing a creature who will ſoon be ſenſible of my care.—This thought has not only produced an overflowing of tenderneſs to you, but made me very attentive to calm my mind and take exerciſe, leſt I ſhould deſtroy an object, in whom we are to have a mutual intereſt, you know. Yeſterday—do not ſmile!—finding that I had hurt myſelf by lifting precipitately a large log of wood, I ſat down in an agony, till I felt thoſe ſaid twitches again.
Are you very buſy?