I can indeed barely grasp the fact
that I have come into possession of land and money. Heaven only
knows what I am to do with it all.
Write to me; write soon. You seem further away from me to-day than
you did last night; and yet I should miss you more if I could
realise my own existence. Can you make your way through these
contradictions? It seems to me this evening that I, Emilia, am still
beside you, that some one else sits here in exile with nothing
written on the page of her future, not even by the finger of Hope.
Good night, dearest.
Yours ever and always,
EMILIA.
LETTER III.
FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL,
July 26th.
What do you think stepped in with my bath this morning? A long
narrow letter sealed with a heart. I kissed the blue stamp and
spread the three dear sheets out on my pillow. Oime, Constantia, how
I love you! But why write about _me_? Why waste pen and ink
wondering how I am? Tell me about yourself, tell me all you do, and
all you think; tell me how many different hats you wore on
Wednesday, and how you misspent your time on Thursday; tell me of
all the nonsense that is poured into your ears, of all the rubbish
you read; tell me even how many times your mother wakes you in the
night to ask if you are sleeping well.
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