“‘Mr. Heartsell has called on me several times since you left. Poor fellow, he looks so sad! He treats me with such tender consideration--never mentions the subject; I suppose he has given up all hope in that direction. I can’t help having the very highest respect for him; but do not become jealous, for I don’t love him the least bit. How could I love any one else when my Eddie has taken my heart away with him? “‘I think poor old Bob will die before you come home--he is very old, you know; I never let him want for anything--how could I, as I think of the time when we were poor homeless tramps? Do you ever let your mind wander back to those old days when we were all tramps? Have you forgotten the cloth shoes you made for me while you were convalescing at Mrs. Holly’s farmhouse? I have got those old shoes yet; I am preserving them as relics of the happy days of old. “‘Papa says that he will have to mortgage his estate to buy postage stamps if I don’t quit writing so many long letters to you. I don’t care if he does--I mean to write a long letter every day. “‘The autumn weather has been delightful, and you may guess Viola and I have made good use of it. She is the liveliest girl I ever saw--always mirthful and happy, except when Harry gets on his high horse of pride; then a shade of melancholy chases away the jolly look. Alas! what misery will ensue if Harry does not conquer this strange, mysterious passion called pride. Poor girl! she does not know that it is the hateful money that keeps Harry and her so far apart. Harry is not happy, as he was before Viola came, and I begin to see a cloud of sorrow rising in the distance which is sure to burst over their heads, unless something intervenes to prevent it. Oh, love, love, love! what a wonderful thing thou art! How much happiness canst thou give when circumstances are favorable, and what misery when unfavorable! When I think of what exquisite delight your love has given me I can’t realize the fact that the same kind of passion has caused so much misery to others. I am so selfish in my love, yet so happy; but then, when I think of the many long, dreary days that must elapse before I shall see you, I am in despair. I sometimes imagine that I should like to fall into a trance, and not wake up till you return. The old clock on the mantel goes on ticking away deliberately, while an age seems to intervene between the strokes. Oh, how can I wait so long before I shall look again in those dear eyes? Your eyes always looked so tenderly down into mine; I could read your thoughts when gazing in your eyes. You were always so tender and gentle with me, in the good old days; when my feet were bleeding from their many wounds, I remember you lifted me in your arms--when I was unable to walk--and