I have turned away. You are smiling
very sweetly up there; my table is strewn with things her hand has
touched,--I am not quite alone.
Well, good night. I must go down to my dear old ladies and read to
them a while before they go to bed.
Your EMILIA.
LETTER VIII.
GRAYSMILL, September 4th.
You are a sweet to write so often, and I am a wretched niggard that
deserves not one half of what you give. I began to write several
times--of course you know that. Take care of yourself; the thought
of your coughing troubles me; each time I think of you I hear you
cough, and it makes me miserable. I met a child on the Common
yesterday, with hair your colour that fell back in thick curls from
a forehead almost as white as yours. Need I say that I kissed her?
Poor mite, she had such dirty clothes! She told me where she lives;
I must make inquiries about her mother. I might be able to help. The
existence of poverty is just beginning to dawn upon me. It is
strange how long one can live with one's eyes entirely closed to
certain things.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35