a very
little, but it pleased me. He has killed an Armine hare! Oh! what a
morning have I spent; so happy, so sorrowful, so full of tears and
smiles! I hardly know whether I laughed or wept most. That dear,
dear farm-house! And then they all talked of you. How they do love my
Ferdinand! But so must everyone. The poor woman has lost her heart to
you, I suspect, and I am half inclined to be a little jealous. She did
so praise you! So kind, so gentle, giving such little trouble, and, as I
fear, so much too generous! Exactly like my Ferdinand; but, really, this
was unnecessary. Pardon me, love, but I am learning prudence.

Do you know, I went into your room? I contrived to ascend alone; the
good woman followed me, but I was there alone a moment, and, and, and,
what do you think I did? I pressed my lips to your pillow. I could not
help it; when I thought that his dear head had rested there so often and
so lately, I could not refrain from pressing my lips to that favoured
resting-place, and I am afraid I shed a tear besides.

When mine own love receives this he will be at Bath. How I pray that
you may find all your family well and happy! I hope they will love me. I
already love them, and dear, dear Armine. I shall never have courage to
go there again until your return. It is night, and I am writing this
in my own room. Perhaps the hour may have its influence, but I feel
depressed. Oh, that I were at your side! This house is so desolate
without you. Everything reminds me of the past. My Ferdinand, how can
I express to you what I feel--the affection, the love, the rapture,
the passionate joy, with which your image inspires me? I will not be
miserable, I will be grateful to Heaven that I am loved by one so rare
and gifted. Your portrait is before me; I call it yours; it is so like!
'Tis a great consolation. My heart is with you. Think of me as I think
of you. Awake or asleep my thoughts are alike yours, and now I am going
to pray for you. Thine own

Henrietta.

*****

Letter IX.

My best beloved! The week is long past, but you say nothing of
returning. Oh! my Ferdinand, your Henrietta is not happy. I read your
dear letters over and over again. They ought to make me happy. I feel
in the consciousness of your affection that I ought to be the happiest
person in the world, and yet, I know not why, I am very depressed. You
say that all is going well; but why do you not enter into detail? There
are difficulties; I am prep