have
done for me, and to think that I have not conveyed to you at the time
a tithe of my sense of all your gentle kindness. You are so gentle,
Ferdinand! I think that is the greatest charm of your character. My
gentle, gentle love! so unlike all other persons that I have met with!
Your voice is so sweet, your manner so tender, I am sure you have the
kindest heart that ever existed: and then it is a daring spirit, too,
and that I love!

Be of good cheer, my Ferdinand, all will go well. I am full of hope,
and would be of joy, if you were here, and yet I am joyful, too, when I
think of all your love. I can sit for hours and recall the past, it is
so sweet. When I received your dear letter from Armine yesterday, and
knew indeed that you had gone, I went and walked in our woods, and sat
down on the very bank we loved so, and read your letter over and over
again; and then I thought of all you had said. It is so strange; I think
I could repeat every word you have uttered since we first knew each
other. The morning that began so miserably wore away before I dreamed it
could be noon.

Papa arrived about an hour before dinner. So kind and good! And why
should he not be? I was ashamed of myself afterwards for seeming
surprised that he was the same as ever. He asked me if your family had
returned to Armine. I said that you had expected them daily. Then he
asked me if I had seen you. I said very often, but that you had now
gone to Bath, as their return had been prevented by the illness of a
relative. Did I right in this? I looked as unconcerned as I could when
I spoke of you, but my heart throbbed, oh! how it throbbed! I hope,
however, I did not change colour; I think not; for I had schooled myself
for this conversation. I knew it must ensue. Believe me, Ferdinand, papa
really likes you, and is prepared to love you. He spoke of you in a
tone of genuine kindness. I gave him your message about the shooting at
Armine; that you regretted his unexpected departure had prevented you
from speaking before, but that it was at his entire command, only that,
after Ducie, all you could hope was, that the extent of the land might
make up for the thinness of the game. He was greatly pleased. Adieu! All
good angels guard over you. I will write every day to the post-office,
Bath. Think of me very much. Your own faithful

Henrietta.

Letter II.

_Henrietta to Ferdinand_.

O Ferdinand, what heaven it is to think of you, and to read you