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The Hunted Outlaw - or, Donald Morrison, the Canadian Rob Roy by Anonymous
page 17 of 76 (22%)


CHAPTER IX.

"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care."

"DEAREST DONALD,--I received your kind letter. That you are doing well,
and saving money for the purpose you speak of, it is pleasant to hear.
That you still love me is what is dearest to my heart. I may confess
in this letter what I could scarcely ever say in your presence, that
I think of you always. All our old walks are eloquent of the calm and
happy past. When I sit beneath the tree where I first learned that you
cared for me, my thoughts go back, and I can almost hear the tones of
your voice. I feel lonely sometimes. Your letters are a great solace. If
I feel a little sad I go to my room, and unburden my heart to Him who is
not indifferent even to the sparrow's fall. Sometimes the woods seem
mournful, and when the wind, in these autumn evenings, wails through the
pines, I don't know how it is, but I feel tears in my eyes.

"And now, Donald, what I am going to tell you will surprise you. We are
going away to Springfield, in Massachusetts. A little property has been
left father there, and he is going to live upon it. Location does not
affect feeling. My heart is yours wherever I may be.

"God bless you, dearest.

"Your own

"MINNIE."
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