"
Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in
your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the
darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within
the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great
Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in
her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?
O Constance, I would give all--my very eyesight--to feel an arm
about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest. We women are poor
wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.
Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.
Good night, dearest.
E
LETTER X.
GRAYSMILL, September 20th.
Blessings upon you, my sweet dearest; your birthday is the day of
days to me.
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