make my home your home, to take control of my household, and to let
me see faces I love about me as the shadows enfold me.

Like your married life, mine was unsuccessful, but not for the same
reason. The woman I married did not understand--probably could not
understand. She gave me no children. We are born this way, or
that. To understand is pain and joy in one; to misconceive is to
scatter broken glass for bare feet. Yet when I laid her away, a few
years ago, I had terrible pangs of regret, which must come to the
heart that has striven in vain. I did my best; I tried to make her
understand, but she never did. I used at first to feel angry; then
I became patient. But I waked up again, and went smiling along,
active, vigorous, getting pleasure out of the infinitely small
things, and happy in perfecting my organization.

This place, which I have called Moira, is to be yours--or, rather,
Sheila's. So, in any case, you will want to come and see the home I
have made this old colonial mansion, with its Corinthian pillars and
verandah, high steps, hard-wood floors polished like a pan, every
room hung in dimity and chintz, and the smell of fruit and flowers
everywhere. You will want to see it all, and you'll want to live
here.

There's little rain here, so it's not like Ireland, and the green is
not so green; but the flowers are marvellously bright, and the birds
sing almost as well as they sing in Ireland, though there's no lark.
Strange it is, but true, the only things that draw me back to
Ireland in my soul are you, and Sheila, whom I've never seen, and
the lark singing as he rises until he becomes a grey-blue speck, and
then vanishing in the sky.