Glad am I when the time comes round for writing to you again--though I can't please myself with my letters, poor little echoes that they are of the loving, hoping, far-journeying thoughts so busy within. It has been a happy time since I received the paper with the joyful news you were back at Washington, well on your way to recovery, able partially to resume work--scenting from afar the fresh breeze & sunshine of perfect health--by this time, not from afar, perhaps. The thought of that makes dull days bright & bright days glorious to me too. I note in the New York _Graphic_ that a new edition of "Leaves of Grass" was called for--sign truly that America is not so very slowly & now absorbing the precious food she needs above all else? Perhaps, dear Friend, even during your lifetime will begin to come the proof you will alone accept--that "your country absorbs you as affectionately as you have absorbed it." I have had two great pleasures since I last wrote you. One is that Herby has read with a large measure of responsive delight "Leaves of Grass" quite through, so that he now sees you with his own eyes & has in his heart the living, growing germs of a loving admiration that will grow with his growth & strengthen every fibre of good in him. Also he read & took much pride in my "letters," now shown him for the first time. Percy has had a fortnight's holiday with us, and looks better in health, though still not altogether as I could wish. He says he is getting such good experience he would not care just yet to change his post even for better pay. Music is his greatest pleasure--he seems to get more enjoyment out of that than out of literature, & is acquiring some practical skill.