My sweet dear, you were
enough; why have I learned this bitter knowledge? Oh, how I laugh of
a night, thinking of myself six months ago, thinking of what I then
mistook for love!
Eleven days since I saw him. I have been conscious of every hour. We
were busy here; there is much to do at Christmas time. I wrote to
him that I could take no more lessons nor even walk with him for the
present, as I must devote myself entirely to the Christmas work, and
he has written to me twice. He would have me think that he sits
there forlorn, cursing Yule-tide and charity; he says in the letter
I received this morning, that it is time my charity were turned in
his direction. I think I shall go to the cottage this afternoon;
there is an end to all endurance. Or shall I wait until New Year's
day? Perhaps that were best. I like to try my strength, to see how
much can be borne.
I can write no more now; I must try to get through a few other
letters. I have sent no cards to Florence. What a worm I am!
Your words of love have helped me through these days; I carry the
three dear letters, along with his, in my pocket.
Good-bye, dearest; blessings upon you.
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