“MY DEAREST HERMIONE--I am going abroad in an expedition that may be attended with some danger, although I have every hope of returning in safety; yet I write this because against the accidents of life we cannot take precaution. I know not what may happen, therefore I write this; no one but you will read it--oh, wife of my heart--and I lay my soul bare before you. Hermione, what has been the life of my life, the soul of my actions? What has been the source of all my virtues, all my few good deeds, all that is noblest and best in me?--my love for you. What drove me mad?--my love for you. Men have loved before, and men will love again, but I do not believe that ever one loved a woman so entirely, so devotedly, so wholly as I loved you. “My darling, my wife, that love was no ordinary passion, common words will not tell it. Do you know what dew is to thirsty flowers, sunshine to birds, light and warmth to fair spring blossoms? that you are to me. The light of my soul, my one hope and treasure. Ah, sweet wife of mine, go out in the woods and count the leaves on each tree; go to the shore and count each grain of sand; look up at the bright heavens and count each pale, pure star; you could do that more easily than I can tell you how deeply, how dearly, how well I love you. The world does not hold your peer, my love. Looking back, I cannot remember the time when I did not love you with the same passionate love. When we were children I worshiped the ground you stood upon, and my love grew with my growth. When I came back to Aldenmere and found all the promise of your beautiful youth fulfilled, and you yourself lovelier than dream of poet ever was, I swore to myself that if any man living could win you I would be that man. My darling, you know how I tried. I loved you, I sought you, I was never happy out of your presence, or away from you. My very life was so wrapped in yours that I had no existence away from you. I can remember when I first began to hope that you would care for me. I can remember every faint token of preference you ever gave me, all your pretty shy, sweet, maidenly ways. Hermione, sweet, true wife, do you remember the evening out among the flowers when I spoke to you of love and you did not send me from you? I went home that night with my heart on fire, resolved to ask you at once to be my wife, for I could brook delay no longer; my love was eating my very life away. Darling, was it a sweet, maidenly whim to make me still more eager, or was it that you were really engrossed? For one whole week I went every day to Leeholme, but could not contrive to spend one solitary five minutes with you. Oh, love, my love, had it been otherwise the story of my life would have been different.