"Cher père Nilgoes. S'il vous plait voulez vous me donné
plus de jeux que des oranges des pommes et des pombons parc
que nous allons faire l'arbre de noel cette anné et les
jeaux ferait mieux pour l'arbre de Noel. Il ne faut pas dire
à petite mere s'il vous plait parce que je ne veut pas
quelle sache sil vous voulez venir ce soir du ceil pour que
vous pouvez me donner ce que je vous demande Dites bon jour
á la St. Viearge est à l'enfant Jeuses et à Ste Joseph.
Adieu cher St. Nilgoes."

I haven't altered the spelling, I love it too well, prophetic of a fault
I still carry about me. How strange that little bit of invocation to the
dear folk above sounds to me now! My mother must have been teaching me
things after her own persuasion; most naturally, poor dear one--though
that too has gone like water off my mind. It was one of the troubles
between her and my father: the compact that I was to be brought up a
Catholic was dissolved after they separated; and I am sorry, thinking it
unjust to her; yet glad, content with being what I am.

I must have been less than five when I penned this: I was always a
letter-writer, it seems.

It is a reproach now from many that I have ceased to be: and to them I
fear it is true. That I have not truly ceased, "witness under my hand
these presents,"--or whatever may be the proper legal terms for an
affidavit.

What were _you_ like, Beloved, as a very small child? Should I have loved
you from the beginning had we toddled to the rencounter; and would my love