for whence proceed my irresolution, my vicissitudes of purpose, but from
my love? and that man's heart must be made of strange stuff that can abhor
or contemn a woman for loving him too much. Of such stuff the heart of my
friend, thank Heaven, is _not_ made. Though I love him far--
_far_ too much, he will not trample on or scoff at me.

But how my pen rambles!--No wonder; for my intellects are in a strange
confusion. There is an acute pain just here. Give me your hand and let me
put it on the very spot. Alas! there is no dear hand within my reach. I
remember feeling just such a pain but once before. Then you chanced to be
seated by my side. I put your hand to the spot, and, strange to tell, a
moment after I looked for the pain and 'twas gone,--utterly vanished!
Cannot I imagine so strongly as to experience that relief which your hand
pressed to my forehead would give? Let me lay down the pen and try.

Ah! my friend! when present, thou'rt an excellent physician; but as thy
presence is my cure, so thy absence is my only, my fatal malady.

My desk is, of late, always open; my paper spread; my pen moist. I must
talk to you, though you give me no answer, though I have nothing but
gloomy forebodings to communicate, or mournful images to call up. I must
talk to you, even when you cannot hear; when invisible; when distant many
a mile. It is some relief even to corporal agonies. Even the pain which I
just now complained of is lessened since I took up the pen. Oh, Hal! Hal!
if you ever prove ungrateful or a traitor to me, and there be a state
retributive hereafter, terrible will be thy punishment.

But why do I talk to thee thus wildly? Why deal I in such rueful
prognostics? I want to tell you why, for I have a reason for my present
alarms: they all spring from one source,--my doubts of thy fidelity. Yes,