August 30, 1845.
This sweet Autumn Evening, Friday, comes all golden into the room and makes me write to you – – not think of you – – yet what shall I write?
It must be for another time . . . after Monday, when I am to see you, you know, and hear if the headache be gone, since your note would not round to the perfection of kindness and comfort, and tell me so.
God bless my dearest friend.
R.B.
I am much better – – well, indeed – – thank you.