nexpressibly anxious that you should give me credit for
having done my best, and for having constantly had in mind the way in
which you would be affected by the letter I am now writing. I do hope
you will be pleased.

Almost eight years ago, you made a remark--this may show you that
if we "jeer" at your remarks, we remember them. The remark applied to
the hypothetical young lady with whom I should fall in love and took
the form of saying "If she is good, I shan't mind who she is." I
don't know how many times I have said that over to myself in the last
two or three days in which I have decided on this letter.

Do not be frightened; or suppose that anything sensational or final
has occurred. I am not married, my dear mother, neither am I engaged.
You are called to the council of chiefs very early in its
deliberations. If you don't mind I will tell you, briefly, the whole
story.

You are, I think, the shrewdest person for seeing things whom I
ever knew: consequently I imagine that you do not think that I go
down to Bedford Park every Sunday for the sake of the scenery. I
should not wonder if you know nearly as much about the matter as I
can tell in a letter. Suffice it to say however briefly (for neither
of us care much for gushing: this letter is not on Mrs. Ratcliffe
lines) that the first half of my time of acquaintance with the Bloggs
was spent in enjoying a very intimate, but quite breezy and Platonic
friendship with Frances Blogg, reading, talking and enjoying life
together, having great sympathies on all subjects; and the second
half in making the thrilling, but painfully responsible discovery
that Platonism, on my side, had not the field by any means to itself.
That is how we stand now. No one knows, except her family and
yourself.

My dearest mother, I am sure you are at least not unsympathetic.
Indeed we love each other more than we shall either of us ever be
able to say. I have refrained from sentiment in this letter--for I
don't think you like it much. But love is a very different thing from
sentiment and you will never laugh at that. I will not say that you
are sure to like Frances, for all young men say that to their
mothers, quite naturally, and their mothers never believe them, also,
quite naturally. Besides, I am so confident, I should like you to
find her out for yourself. She is, in reality,