sion. For your letters I
returned, and except the two words, or rather the one word,
'Household,' written twice in an old account book, I have no other. I
burnt your last note, for two reasons:--firstly, it was written in a
style not very agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word
without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious
people.

I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's
birthday--the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so
that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting
her;--perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or
otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or
nearness;--every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a
period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one
rallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both
hope will be long after either of her parents.

The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably
more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much
longer one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake;
but now it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my
part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very extended
period of life, still it is one when the habits and thought are
generally so formed as to admit of no modification; and as we could
not agree when younger, we should with difficulty do so now.

I say all this, because I own to you, that, notwithstanding every
thing, I considered our re-union as not impossible for more than a
year after the separation;--but then I gave up the hope entirely and
for ever. But this very impossibility of re-union seems to me at
least a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can
arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as
much of its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve
perhaps more easily than nearer connections. For my own part, I am
violent, but not malignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my
resentments. To you, who are colder and more concentrated, I would
just hint, that you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger
for dignity, and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear
you _now_ (whatever I may have done) no resentment whatever.
Remember, that _if you have injured me_ in aught, this forgiveness is
something; and that, if I have _injured you_