You should know this of him: he has been the dearest possible of human
beings to me since I lost you. I am almost not unblessed when I have him
to speak to. Yet we can say so little together. I guess all he means. An
endless wish to give me comfort:--and I stay selfish. The knowledge that
he would stolidly die to serve me hardly touches me.
Oh, look kindly in his eyes if you see him: mine will be looking at you
out of his!
LETTER LXXXV.
Good-morning, Beloved; there is sun shining. I wonder if Arthur is with
you yet?
If faith could still remove mountains, surely I should have seen you
long ago. But if I were to see you now, I should fear that it meant you
were dead.
That the same world should hold you and me living and unseen by each
other is a great mystery. Will love ever explain it?
I wish I could bid the sun stand still over your meeting with Arthur so
that I might know. We were so like each other once. Time has worn it
off: but he is like what I was. Will you remember me well enough to
recognize me in him, and to be a little pitiful to my weak longing for a
word this one last time of all? Beloved, I press my lips to yours, and
pray--speak!
LETTER LXXXVI.
Dearest: To-day Arthur came and brought me your message: I have at my
heart your "profoundly grateful remembrances." Somewhere else unanswered
lies your prayer for God to bless me.
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