My dear, you are my share of the world, also my share of Heaven: but

there I begin to speak of what I do not know, as is the way with happy

humanity. All that my eyes could dream of waking or sleeping, all that

my ears could be most glad to hear, all that my heart could beat faster

to get hold of--your friendship gave me suddenly as a bolt from the

blue.

My friend, my friend, my friend! If you could change or go out of my

life now, the sun would drop out of my heavens: I should see the world

with a great piece gashed out of its side,--my share of it gone. No, I

should not see it, I don't think I should see anything ever again,--not

truly.

Is it not strange how often to test our happiness we harp on sorrow? I

do: don't let it weary you. I know I have read somewhere that great love

always entails pain. I have not found it yet: but, for me, it does mean

fear,--the sort of fear I had as a child going into big buildings. I

loved them: but I feared, because of their bigness, they were likely to

tumble on me.

But when I begin to think you may be too big for me, I remember you as

my "friend," and the fear goes for a time, or becomes that sort of fear

I would not part with if I might.

I have no news for you: only the old things to tell you, the wonder of

which ever remains new. How holy your face has become to me: as I saw it

last, with something more than the usual proofs of love for me upon

it--a look as if your love troubled you! I know the trouble: I feel it,

dearest, in my own woman's way. Have patience.--When I see you so, I

feel that prayer is the only way given me for saying what my love for

you wishes to be. And yet I hardly ever pray in words.

Dearest, be happy when you get this: and, when you can, come and give my

happiness its rest. Till then it is a watchman on the lookout.

"Night-night!" Your true sleepy one.




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