tions
crowd upon me, and, if I were given to novel-writing, I could weave
them into a very pretty little love-story; but then I would have to
make myself the heroine. There was a little Scotch song, however, that
he used to sing to me, and as it will afford me a sweet, sad pleasure
to recall it, I will do so, at least as much of it as I can recollect:

"Come over the heather, we'll trip thegither
All in the morning early;
With heart and hand I'll by thee stand,
For in truth I lo'e thee dearly,
There's mony a lass I lo'e fu' well,
And mony that lo'e me dearly,
But there's ne'er a lass beside thysel'
I e'er could lo'e sincerely,
Come over the heather, we'll trip thegither,
All in the morning early;
With heart and hand I'll by thee stand,
For in truth I lo'e thee dearly."

I have before me now the first letter I ever received from him,
expressing what he had several times in vain attempted to speak. For
although he was at no loss for thoughts, or words in which to clothe
them, in ordinary conversation, yet, whenever he felt a desire to open
his heart to me on the subject of his love, he became so much agitated
that he had not the courage to venture, and finally wrote and sent me
the following letter:

After a brief and simple introduction, he says: "That I love, you
is but a faint expression of my feelings, and should I be so happy as
to have that feeling reciprocated by you, I pledge you the best efforts
of my life to promote your happiness. Nature, I fear, has wrought me
in her rougher mould, and unfitted me to appear to advantage in an
undertaking like this, in which so much delicacy of sentiment seems to
be required in these, our days of refinement. Such as I am--and I have
endeavored to appear without any false coloring--I offer myself a
candidate for your affections, for your love. You have known me long
enough to find out my faults--for none are without them--and to
discover what virtues I may have (if any), and, from these, to form a
just estimate of my character.

"I feel that my future happiness, in a great measure, depends on
your answer. But suspense to me is the greatest source of unhappiness.
Naturally impatient and sanguine, I cannot rest until the result is
known. May I hope that my offer will be favorably received, and that
hereafter I may subscribe myself, as now, Your devoted, JOS. CHARLESS,
Jr."

If this seems like a "love-letter" to you, my dear children, it
does not to me, for it does n