What a rain is this, my poor little Dove! Yet as the wind comes from some other quarter than the East, I trust that thou hast found it genial. Good bye, belovedest, till tomorrow evening. Meantime, love me, and dream of me.
March 31st.—Evening.—Best Wife, it is scarcely dark yet; but thy husband has just lighted his lamps, and sits down to talk to thee. Would that he could hear an answer in thine own sweet voice; for his spirit needs to be cheered by that dearest of all harmonies, after a long, listless, weary day. Just at this moment, it does seem as if life could not go on without it. What is to be done?
Dearest, if Elizabeth Howe is to be with you on Saturday, it would be quite a calamity to thee and thy household, for me to come at the same time. Now will Sophie Hawthorne complain, and the Dove's eyes be suffused, at my supposing that their husband's visit could be a calamity at any time. Well, at least, we should be obliged to give up many hours of happiness, and it would not even be certain that I could have the privilege of seeing mine own wife in private, at all. Wherefore, considering these things, I have resolved, and do hereby make it a decree of fate, that my present widowhood shall continue one week longer. And my sweetest Dove—yes, and naughtiest Sophie Hawthorne too—will both concur in the fitness of this resolution, and will help me to execute it with what of resignation is attainable by mortal man, by writing me a letter full of strength and comfort. And I, infinitely dear wife, will write to thee again; so that, though my earthly part will not be with thee on Saturday, yet thou shalt have my heart and soul in a letter. Will not this be right, and for the best? "Yes, dearest husband," saith my meekest little Dove; and Sophie Hawthorne cannot gainsay her.
Mine unspeakably ownest, dost thou love me a million of times as much as thou didst a week ago? As for me, my heart grows deeper and wider every moment, and still thou fillest it in all its depths and boundlessness. Wilt thou never be satisfied with making me love thee? To what use canst thou put so much love as thou continually receivest from me? Dost thou hoard it up, as misers do their treasure?
Thine Own Blessedest Husband.
April 1st. Before breakfast.—Good morning, entirely belovedest.
Sophie Hawthorne, I have enclosed something for thee in this letter. If thou findest it not, then tell me what thou art.
Miss Sophia A. Peabody,
Care of Dr. N. Peabody,
Salem, Mass.
TO MISS PEABODY