sant,
I fancy, disputing over a question of boundaries. And he comes in for
breakfast, three hours later, looking positively _fresh,_ and wants to
know why I am yawning.

Most mornings he brings your letter up to my room in his mouth. It is
old Nan-nan's joke: she only sends up _yours_ so, and pretends it is
Benjy's own clever selection. I pretend that, too, to him; and he thinks
he is doing something wonderful. The other morning I was--well, Benjy
hears splashing: and tires of waiting--or his mouth waters. 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. I have more
love in me after all than I knew.

Ah, I know: I wrote "grave side," and all my heart is in arms against
the treason. With us it is not "till death us do part": we leap it
altogether, and are clasped on the other side.

My dear, my dear, I lay my head down on your heart: I love you! I post
this to show how certain I am. At twelve to-day I shall see you.

LETTER XLV.

Beloved: I look at this ridiculous little nib now, running like a plow
along the furrows! What can the poor thing do? Bury its poor black, blunt
little nose in the English language in order to tell you,