wing lines:--

DEAREST, AND EVER DEAREST,--Where art thou at this moment? What are
thy thoughts,--are they upon me? I write this at the dead of night. I
picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see
you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark
eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave
there? Well, well! it will not be for long now that we shall be divided.
Oh, what joy, when I think that I am about to see you! Two days more,
at most three, and we shall meet, shall we not? I am going to see my
sister. I subjoin my address. Come, come, come; I thirst to see you once
more. And I did well to say, "Wait, and be patient;" we shall not wait
long: before the year is out I shall be free. My uncle has had another
and more deadly attack. I see its trace in his face, in his step, in his
whole form and bearing. The only obstacle between us is fading away.
Can I grieve when I think it,--grieve when life with you spreads smiling
beyond the old man's grave? And why should age, that has survived all
passion, stand with its chilling frown, and the miserable prejudices the
world has not conquered, but strengthened into a creed,--why should
age stand between youth and youth? I feel your mild eyes rebuke me as
I write. But chide me not that on earth I see only you. And it will be
mine to give you wealth and rank! Mine to see the homage of my own heart
reflected from the crowd who bow, not to the statue, but the pedestal.
Oh, how I shall enjoy your revenge upon the proud! For I have drawn
no pastoral scenes in my picture of the future. No; I see you leading
senates, and duping fools. I shall be by your side, your partner, step
after step, as you mount the height, for I am ambitious, you know,
William; and not less because I love,--rather ten thousand times more
so. I would not have you born great and noble, for what then could we
look to,--what use all my schemes, and my plans, and aspirings? Fortune,
accident, would have taken from us the great zest of life, which is
desire.

When I see you, I shall tell you that I have some fears of Olivier
Dalibard; he has evidently some wily project in view. He, who never
interfered before with the blundering physician, now thrusts him aside,
affects to have saved the old man, attends him always. Dares he think to
win an influence, to turn against me,--against us? Happily, when I shall
come back, my uncle will probably be resto