r
letters! This morning brought me two; the one from London, and the few
lines you wrote me as the mail stopped on the road. Do you know, you
will think me very ungrateful, but those dear few lines, I believe I
must confess, I prefer them even to your beautiful long letter. It was
so kind, so tender, so sweetly considerate, so like my Ferdinand, to
snatch the few minutes that should have been given to rest and food to
write to his Henrietta. I love you for it a thousand times more than
ever! I hope you are really well: I hope you tell me truth. This is a
great fatigue, even for you. It is worse than our mules that we once
talked of. Does he recollect? Oh! what joyous spirits my Ferdinand was
in that happy day! I love him when he laughs, and yet I think he won my
heart with those pensive eyes of his!

Papa is most kind, and suspects nothing. Yesterday I mentioned you
first. I took up your guitar, and said to whom it belonged. I thought it
more natural not to be silent about you. Besides, dearest, papa really
likes you, and I am sure will love you very much when he knows all,
and it is such a pleasure to me to hear you praised and spoken of with
kindness by those I love. I have, of course, little to say about myself.
I visit my birds, tend my flowers, and pay particular attention to all
those I remember that you admired or touched. Sometimes I whisper to
them, and tell them that you will soon return, for, indeed, they seem
to miss you, and to droop their heads like their poor mistress. Oh! my
Ferdinand, shall we ever again meet? Shall I, indeed, ever again listen
to that sweet voice, and will it tell me again that it loves me with the
very selfsame accents that ring even now in my fascinated ear?

O Ferdinand! this love is a fever, a fever of health. I cannot sleep; I
can scarcely countenance my father at his meals. I am wild and restless;
but I am happy, happy in the consciousness of your fond devotion.
To-morrow I purpose visiting our farm-house. I think papa will shoot
to-morrow. My heart will throb, I fancy, when I see our porch. God bless
my own love; the idol of his fond and happy

Henrietta.

Letter III.

_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.

Dearest! No letter since the few lines on the road, but I suppose it was
impossible. To-morrow will bring me one, I suppose, from Bath. I know
not why I tremble when I write that word. All is well here, papa most
kind, the same as ever. He went a little on your land to-day,