For me, had I not then heard of your wellbeing, I should have disquieted myself sorely. Three weeks--twenty-one days--it is a long time to go about as if there were a stone lying in the corner of one's heart, or a thorn piercing it. One may not acknowledge this: one's reason, or better, one's love, may often quite argue it down; yet, it is there. This morning, when the little postman went whistling past Rockmount gate, I turned almost sick with fear. Understand me--not with one sort of fear. Faithlessness or forgetfulness are--Well, with, you they are--simply impossible! But you are my Max; anything happening to you happens to me; nothing can hurt you without hurting me. Do you feel this as I do? if so, surely, under any circumstances, you would write. Forgive! I meant not to blame you; we never ought to blame what we cannot understand. Besides, all this suspense may end to-morrow. Max does not intend to wound me; Max loves me. Just now, sitting quiet, I seemed to hear you saying: "My little lady," as distinctly as if you were close at hand, and had called me. Yet it is a year since I have heard the sound of your voice, or seen your face. Augustus says, of late you have turned quite grey. Never, mind, Max! I like silver locks. An old man I knew used to say, "At the root of every grey hair is a eell of wisdom." How will you be able to bear with the foolishness of this me? Yet, all the better for you. I know you would soon be ten years younger--looks and all--if, after your hard work, you had a home to come back to, and--and _me_. See how conceited we grow! See the demoralizing result of having been for a whole year loved and cared for; of knowing ourselves, for the first time in our lives, first object to somebody! There now, I can laugh again; and so I may begin and write my letter. It shall not be a sad or complaining letter, if I can help it. Spring is coming on fast. I never remember such a March. Buds of chestnuts bursting, blackbirds singing, primroses out in the lane, a cloud of snowy wind-flowers gleaming through the trees of my favourite wood, concerning which, you remember, we had our celebrated battle about blue-bells and hyacinths. These are putting out their leaves already; there will be such quantities this year. How I should like to show you my bank of--ahem! _blue-bells!_ Mischievous still, you perceive. Obstinate, likewise; almost as obstinate as--you. Augustus hints at some "unpleasant business" you have been engaged in lately. I conclude some controversy, in which you have had to "hold your own" more firmly than usual. Or new "enemies,"--business foes only of course, about which you told me I must never grieve, as they were unavoidable. I do not grieve; you will live down any passing animosity. It will be all smooth sailing by-and-by. But in the meantime, why not tell me? I am not a child--and--I am to be your wife, Max.