LETTER XV
Sunday Morning.
I wrote to you yeſterday, my ——; but, finding that the colonel is ſtill detained (for his paſſport was forgotten at the office yeſterday) I am not willing to let ſo many days elapſe without your hearing from me, after having talked of illneſs and apprehenſions.
I cannot boaſt of being quite recovered, yet I am (I muſt uſe my Yorkſhire phraſe; for, when my heart is warm, pop come the expreſſions of childhood into my head) ſo lightſome, that I think it will not go badly with me.—And nothing ſhall be wanting on my part, I aſſure you; for I am urged on, not only by an enlivened affection for you, but by a new-born tenderneſs that plays cheerly round my dilating heart.
I was therefore, in defiance of cold and dirt, out in the air the greater part of yeſterday; and, if I get over this evening without a return of the fever that has tormented me, I ſhall talk no more of illneſs. I have promiſed the little creature, that its mother, who ought to cheriſh it, will not again plague it, and begged it to pardon me; and, ſince I could not hug either it or you to my breaſt, I have to my heart.—I am afraid to read over this prattle—but it is only for your eye.
I have been ſeriouſly vexed, to find that, whilſt you were harraſſed by impediments in your undertakings, I was giving you additional uneaſineſs.—If you can make any of your plans anſwer—it is well, I do not think a little money inconvenient; but, ſhould they fail, we will ſtruggle cheerfully together—drawn cloſer by the pinching blaſts of poverty.
Adieu, my love! Write often to your poor girl, and write long letters; for I not only like them for being longer, but becauſe more heart ſteals into them; and I am happy to catch your heart whenever I can.
Yours ſincerely
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