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LETTER XII
Wedneſday Morning.
I will never, if I am not entirely cured of quarrelling, begin to encourage "quick-coming fancies," when we are ſeparated. Yeſterday, my love, I could not open your letter for ſome time; and, though it was not half as ſevere as I merited, it threw me into ſuch a fit of trembling, as ſeriouſly alarmed me. I did not, as you may ſuppoſe, care for a little pain on my own account; but all the fears which I have had for a few days paſt, returned with freſh force. This morning I am better; will you not be glad to hear it? You perceive that ſorrow has almoſt made a child of me, and that I want to be ſoothed to peace.
One thing you miſtake in my character, and imagine that to be coldneſs which is juſt the contrary. For, when I am hurt by the perſon moſt dear to me, I muſt let out a whole torrent of emotions, in which tenderneſs would be uppermoſt, or ſtifle them altogether; and it appears to me almoſt a duty to ſtifle them, when I imagine that I am treated with coldneſs.
I am afraid that I have vexed you, my own ——. I know the quickneſs of your feelings—and let me, in the ſincerity of my heart, aſſure you, there is nothing I would not ſuffer to make you happy. My own happineſs wholly depends on you—and, knowing you, when my reaſon is not clouded, I look forward to a rational proſpect of as much felicity as the earth affords—with a little daſh of rapture into the bargain, if you will look at me, when we meet again, as you have ſometimes greeted, your humbled, yet moſt affectionate
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