ce, and yet------ but no complaints to-day, no
complaints, dearest Ferdinand; let me only express my devoted love. Oh!
that my weak pen could express a tithe of my fond devotion. Ferdinand,
I love you with all my heart, and all my soul, and all my spirit's
strength. I have no thought but for you, I exist only on your idea.
Write, write; tell me that you love me, tell me that you are unchanged.
It is so long since I heard that voice, so long since I beheld that
fond, soft eye! Pity me, my Ferdinand. This is captivity. A thousand,
thousand loves. Your devoted

Henrietta.

Letter XI.

Ferdinand, dearest Ferdinand, the post to-day has brought me no letter.
I cannot credit my senses. I think the postmaster must have thought me
mad. No letter! I could not believe his denial. I was annoyed, too,
at the expression of his countenance. This mode of correspondence,
Ferdinand, I wish not to murmur, but when I consented to this
clandestine method of communication, it was for a few days, a few, few
days, and then----- But I cannot write. I am quite overwhelmed. Oh! will
to-morrow ever come?

Henrietta.

Letter XII.

Dearest Ferdinand, I wish to be calm. Your letter occasions me very
serious uneasiness. I quarrel not with its tone of affection. It is
fond, very fond, and there were moments when I could have melted
over such expressions; but, Ferdinand, it is not candid. Why are we
separated? For a purpose. Is that purpose effected? Were I to judge only
from your letters, I should even suppose that you had not spoken to your
father; but that is, of course, impossible. Your father disapproves of
our union. I feel it; I know it; I was even prepared for it. Come, then,
and speak to my father. It is due to me not to leave him any more in the
dark; it will be better, believe me, for yourself, that he should share
our confidence. Papa is not a rich man, but he loves his daughter. Let
us make him our friend. Ah! why did I ever conceal anything from one so
kind and good? In this moment of desolation, I feel, I keenly feel, my
folly, my wickedness. I have no one to speak to, no one to console
me. This constant struggle to conceal my feelings will kill me. It was
painful when all was joy, but now, O Ferdinand! I can endure this life
no longer. My brain is weak, my spirit perplexed and broken. I will
not say if you love; but, Ferdinand, if you pity me, write, and write
definitely, to your unhappy

Henrietta.

*****

Letter X