Monday.
February 16, 1846.
My long letter is with you, dearest, to show how serious my illness was ‘while you wrote’: unless you find that letter too foolish, as I do on twice thinking – – or at all events a most superfluous bestowment of handwork while the heart was elsewhere, and with you – – never more so! Dear, dear Ba, your adorable goodness sinks into me till it nearly pains, – – so exquisite and strange is the pleasure: so you care for me, and think of me, and write to me! – – I shall never die for you, and if it could be so, what would death prove? But I can live on, your own as now, – – utterly your own.
Dear Ba, do you suppose we differ on so plain a point as that of the superior wisdom, and generosity, too, of announcing such a change &c. at the eleventh hour? There can be no doubt of it, – – and now, what of it to me?
But I am not going to write to-day – – only this – – that I am better, having not been quite so well last night – – so I shut up books (that is, of my own) and mean to think about nothing but you, and you, and still you, for a whole week – – so all will come right, I hope! May I take Wednesday? And do you say that, – – hint at the possibility of that, because you have been reached by my own remorse at feeling that if I had kept my appointment last Saturday (but one) – – Thursday would have been my day this past week, and this very Monday had been gained? Shall I not lose a day for ever unless I get Wednesday and Saturday? – – yet . . . care . . . dearest – – let nothing horrible happen.
If I do not hear to the contrary to-morrow – – or on Wednesday early – –
But write and bless me dearest, most dear Ba. God bless you ever – –