ared for them. Believe me, my Ferdinand, that
your Henrietta can endure as well as enjoy. Your father, he frowns upon
our affection? Tell me, tell me all, only do not leave me in suspense.
I am entitled to your confidence, Ferdinand. It makes me hate myself
to think that I do not share your cares as well as your delights. I am
jealous of your sorrows, Ferdinand, if I may not share them.

Do not let your brow be clouded when you read this. I could kill myself
if I thought I could increase your difficulties. I love you; God
knows how I love you. I will be patient; and yet, my Ferdinand, I feel
wretched when I think that all is concealed from papa, and my lips are
sealed until you give me permission to open them.

Pray write to me, and tell me really how affairs are. Be not afraid to
tell your Henrietta everything. There is no misery so long as we love;
so long as your heart is mine, there is nothing which I cannot face,
nothing which, I am persuaded, we cannot overcome. God bless you,
Ferdinand. Words cannot express my love. Henrietta.

Letter X.

Mine own! I wrote to you yesterday a letter of complaints. I am so
sorry, for your dear letter has come to-day, and it is so kind, so fond,
so affectionate, that it makes me miserable that I should occasion you
even a shade of annoyance. Dearest, how I long to prove my love! There
is nothing that I would not do, nothing that I would not endure, to
convince you of my devotion! I will do all that you wish. I will be
calm, I will be patient, I will try to be content. You say that you are
sure all will go right; but you tell me nothing. What said your dear
father? your mother? Be not afraid to speak.

You bid me tell you all that I am doing. Oh! my Ferdinand, life is a
blank without you. I have seen no one, I have spoken to no one, save
papa. He is very kind, and yet somehow or other I dread to be with him.
This house seems so desolate, so very desolate. It seems a deserted
place since your departure, a spot that some good genius has quitted,
and all the glory has gone. I never care for my birds or flowers now.
They have lost their music and their sweetness. And the woods, I cannot
walk in them, and the garden reminds me only of the happy past. I
have never been to the farm-house again. I could not go now, dearest
Ferdinand; it would only make me weep. I think only of the morning, for
it brings me your letters. I feed upon them, I live upon them. They
are my only joy and sola