The letters? No, Beloved, I could not! Not yet. There you have caught me

where I own I am still shy of you.

A long time hence, when we are a safely wedded pair, you shall turn them

over. It may be a short time; but I will keep them however long. Indeed

I must ever keep them; they talk to me of the dawn of my existence,--the

early light before our sun rose, when my love of you was growing and had

not yet reached its full.

If I disappoint you I will try to make up for it with something I wrote

long before I ever saw you. To-day I was turning over old things my mother

had treasured for me of my childhood--of days spent with her: things of

laughter as well as of tears; such a dear selection, so quaint and sweet,

with moods of her as I dimly remember her to have been. And among them was

this absurdity, written, and I suppose placed in the mouth of my stocking,

the Christmas I stayed with her in France. I remember the time as a great

treat, but nothing of this. "Nilgoes" is "Nicholas," you must understand!

How he must have laughed over me asleep while he read this!

"Cher père Nilgoes. S'il vous plait voulez vous me donné

plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc

que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anné et les

jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de Noel. Il ne faut pas dire

à petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas

quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que

vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour

á la St. Viearge est à l'enfant Jeuses et à Ste Joseph.

Adieu cher St. Nilgoes."

I haven't altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault

I still carry about me. How strange that little bit of invocation to the

dear folk above sounds to me now! My mother must have been teaching me

things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one--though

that too has gone like water off my mind. It was one of the troubles

between her and my father: the compact that I was to be brought up a

Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it

unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am.

I must have been less than five when I penned this: I was always a

letter-writer, it seems.

It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be: and to them I

fear it is true. That I have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand

these presents,"--or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an

affidavit.




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