Tuesday Morning,
October 14, 1845.
Be sure, my own, dearest love, that this is for the best; will be seen for the best in the end. It is hard to bear now – – but you have to bear it; any other person could not, and you will, I know, knowing you – – will be well this one winter if you can, and then – – since I am not selfish in this love to you, my own conscience tells me, – – I desire, more earnestly than I ever knew what desiring was, to be yours and with you and, as far as may be in this life and world, you – – and no hindrance to that, but one, gives me a moment’s care or fear; but that one is just your little hand, as I could fancy it raised in any least interest of yours – – and before that, I am, and would ever be, still silent. But now – – what is to make you raise that hand? I will not speak now; not seem to take advantage of your present feelings, – – we will be rational, and all-considering and weighing consequences, and foreseeing them – – but first I will prove . . . if that has to be done, why – – but I begin speaking, and I should not, I know.
Bless you, love!
R.B.
To-morrow I see you, without fail. I am rejoiced as you can imagine, at your brother’s improved state.