An extra can
of hot water happens to stand at the door; and therein he deposits his
treasure (mine, I mean), and retires saying nothing. The consequence is,
when I open three minutes after his scratch, I find you all ungummed and
swimming, your beautiful handwriting bleared and smeared, so that no eye
but mine could have read it. Benjy's shame when I showed him what he
had done was wonderful.
How it rejoices me to write quite foolish things to you!--that I _can_
helps to explain a great deal in the up-above order of things, which I
never took in when I was merely young and frivolous. One must have
touched a grave side of life before one can take in that Heaven is not
opposed to laughter.
My eye has just caught back at what I have written; and the "little
death" runs through me, just because I wrote "grave side." It shouldn't,
but loving has made me superstitious: the happiness seems too great; how
can it go on? I keep thinking--this is not life: you are too much for
me, my dearest!
Oh, my Beloved, come quickly to meet me to-day: this morning! Ride over;
I am willing it. My own dearest, you must come. If you don't, what shall
I believe? That Love cannot outdo space: that when you are away I cannot
reach you by willing. But I can: come to me! You shall see my arms open
to you as never before. What is it?--you must be coming.
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