you from my own room at Venice, thinking you will be glad to
hear from me. But I know you cannot be so glad to hear from me as I am
to write to you; for everything about you is as you have been accustomed
to see it, and you miss nothing--unless it should be me, which can only
be for a very little while together and very seldom--while everything in
my life is so strange, and I miss so much.

When we were in Switzerland, which appears to have been years ago,
though it was only weeks, I met young Mrs Gowan, who was on a mountain
excursion like ourselves. She told me she was very well and very happy.
She sent you the message, by me, that she thanked you affectionately and
would never forget you. She was quite confiding with me, and I loved her
almost as soon as I spoke to her. But there is nothing singular in that;
who could help loving so beautiful and winning a creature! I could not
wonder at any one loving her. No indeed.

It will not make you uneasy on Mrs Gowan's account, I hope--for I
remember that you said you had the interest of a true friend in her--if
I tell you that I wish she could have married some one better suited to
her. Mr Gowan seems fond of her, and of course she is very fond of him,
but I thought he was not earnest enough--I don't mean in that respect--I
mean in anything. I could not keep it out of my mind that if I was Mrs
Gowan (what a change that would be, and how I must alter to become like
her!) I should feel that I was rather lonely and lost, for the want of
some one who was steadfast and firm in purpose. I even thought she felt
this want a little, almost without knowing it. But mind you are not made
uneasy by this, for she was 'very well and very happy.' And she looked
most beautiful.

I expect to meet her again before long, and indeed have been expecting
for some days past to see her here. I will ever be as good a friend to
her as I can for your sake. Dear Mr Clennam, I dare say you think little
of having been a friend to me when I had no other (not that I have any
other now, for I have made no new friends), but I think much of it, and
I never can forget it.

I wish I knew--but it is best for no one to write to me--how Mr and Mrs
Plornish prosper in the business which my dear father bought for them,
and that old Mr Nandy lives happily with them and his two grandchildren,
and sings all his songs over and over again. I cannot quite keep back
the tears from my eyes when I think of my poor Maggy,