And now that you are not well, will you take care? and not come on Wednesday unless you are better? and never again bring me wet flowers, which probably did all the harm on Thursday? I was afraid for you then, though I said nothing. May God bless you.
Ever yours I am—your own.
Ninety is not a high pulse ... for a fever of this kind—is it? and the heat diminishes, and his spirits are better—and we are all much easier ... have been both to-day and yesterday indeed.
R.B. to E.B.B.
Tuesday Morning,
[Post-mark, October 14, 1845.]
Be sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen for the best in the end. It is hard to bear now—but you have to bear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing you—will be well this one winter if you can, and then—since I am not selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me,—I desire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours and with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, you—and no hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment's care or fear; but that one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised in any least interest of yours—and before that, I am, and would ever be, still silent. But now—what is to make you raise that hand? I will not speak now; not seem to take advantage of your present feelings,—we will be rational, and all-considering and weighing consequences, and foreseeing them—but first I will prove ... if that has to be done, why—but I begin speaking, and I should not, I know.
Bless you, love!
R.B.
To-morrow I see you, without fail. I am rejoiced as you can imagine, at your brother's improved state.