"Oh, how I long for it still, my Lorenzo; and yet there is a pleasure in having to write. I can tell you on this page--I can dare to own to you more than I could by spoken words. This paper cannot see my cheek glow, nor, though cold and unsympathetic as the world, can it smile coldly at feelings it cannot comprehend. Oh yes, there are many hundred miles between us, and I dare pour out my whole heart to you. I dare tell you how much I love you; how you have become part of my happiness--of my being; how my existence is wrapped up in yours. "When I think of that long journey together--of that journey which your noble nature made safe for me, and oh! how happy too, I thank Heaven, which has made me know a man whom I can reverence as well as love. "Even as I write, the memory of those sweet days comes back, every act, every word, every look is remembered. The tones that were music to me, the look that was light, are present to my eye and ear; my head upon your bosom; your eyes look into mine, and the burning kisses go thrilling through my veins into my heart. "Oh come soon, Lorenzo, come and realize all our dreams; blot out this long period of anxious absence from my memory, or only leave it as a dark contrast to our bright joy. I can part with you no more, my beloved; I must go with you where you go. Nothing now opposes our union; you say my father's consent is given. Let me have the right to be with you everywhere, whether in the city or the camp. Let me be your companion, your friend, your consolation, and you shall be my guide, my protector, my husband. "How wildly, how madly I write! some would say how unwomanly. Let them say what they please. They who blame have never loved as we have loved--have never trusted as we trust; or else they have never known you, and cannot comprehend how worthy you are of seeing a clear picture of Leonora's heart, how little capable of misinterpreting one word she writes, or abusing one feeling which you yourself have inspired. "Perhaps, were you here, I could not tell you all this; my tongue might hesitate, my voice might fail me, but the same sensations would be within, and the words, unspoken, would be written in my heart. "It is hard to come forth from our own separate world, and speak of the things of the common, every-day life. Indeed, I have nothing to tell, for I have lived in my own dear world ever since you left me; but one thing I must mention. Tell the Marquis de Vitry that I have heard from my dear cousin Blanche Marie, and she wishes to know if he wears her glove still, and what fortune it has found. She says, if he has not forgotten her, and any couriers pass by Pavia, she would fain hear of his health.