ly, and her lovely image lives still
in the remembrance of all, but a mourning veil hangs over it; for she
left home, but not in peace. She was not happy, and for many years her
life is wrapped in darkness. People think that she is dead; her friends
have long believed so, and mourned her as such; but one among them
believes it not. _I_ do not believe that she is dead. I have a strong
presentiment that she will return; and it would gladden me to show her
how dear she is to me. I have built plans for her future with us, and I
expect her continually, or else a token where I may be able to find her;
and be it in Greenland or in Arabia Deserta whence her voice calls me, I
will find out a way to her.

"I would that I could now describe to you the aged pair, to whom all in
the house look up with love and reverence, who soon will have been a
wedded couple forty years, and who appear no longer able to live the one
without the other--but my pen is too weak for that. I will only venture
upon a slight outline sketch. My father is nearly seventy years old--but
do you think he indulges himself with rest? He would be extremely
displeased if he were to sleep longer in a morning than usual: he rises
every morning at six, it being deeply impressed upon him to lose as
little of life as possible. It is unpleasant to him that his declining
sight compels him now to less activity. He likes that we should read
aloud to him in an evening, and that--romances. My mother smilingly
takes credit to herself for having seduced him to that kind of reading;
and he confesses, with smiles, that it is really useful for old people,
because it contributes to preserve the heart young. For the rest, he is
in all respects equally, perhaps more, good, more noble-hearted than
ever; and from that cause he is to us equally respect-inspiring and
dear. Oh, Ida, it is a happy feeling to be able intrinsically to honour
and love those who have given us life!

"And now must I, with a bleeding heart, throw a mournful shadow over
the bright picture of the house, and that shadow comes at the same time
from a beautiful image--from my mother! I fear, I fear, that she is on
the way to leave us! Her strength has been declining for two years. She
has no decided malady, but she becomes visibly weaker and feebler, and
no remedy, as yet, has shown itself availing for her. They talk now of
the air of next spring--of Selzer-water, and a summer journey;--my
father would travel to the