LETTER XIII
Thurſday Night.
I have been wiſhing the time away, my kind love, unable to reſt till I knew that my penitential letter had reached your hand—and this afternoon, when your tender epiſtle of Tueſday gave ſuch exquiſite pleaſure to your poor ſick girl, her heart ſmote her to think that you were ſtill to receive another cold one.—Burn it alſo, my ——; yet do not forget that even thoſe letters were full of love; and I ſhall ever recollect, that you did not wait to be mollified by my penitence, before you took me again to your heart.
I have been unwell, and would not, now I am recovering, take a journey, becauſe I have been ſeriouſly alarmed and angry with myſelf, dreading continually the fatal conſequence of my folly.—But, ſhould you think it right to remain at H—, I ſhall find ſome opportunity, in the courſe of a fortnight, or leſs perhaps, to come to you, and before then I ſhall be ſtrong again.—Yet do not be uneaſy! I am really better, and never took ſuch care of myſelf, as I have done ſince you reſtored my peace of mind. The girl is come to warm my bed—ſo I will tenderly ſay, good night! and write a line or two in the morning.
Morning.
I wiſh you were here to walk with me this fine morning! yet your abſence ſhall not prevent me. I have ſtayed at home too much; though, when I was ſo dreadfully out of ſpirits, I was careleſs of every thing.
I will now ſally forth (you will go with me in my heart) and try whether this fine bracing air will not give the vigour to the poor babe, it had, before I ſo inconſiderately gave way to the grief that deranged my bowels, and gave a turn to my whole ſyſtem.
Yours truly
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