"That," said I, and even amid my poverty I could not suppress a feeling
of amusement, "that depends wholly on the subject of your epistle;
business requires few words, and less ingenuity, and is fairly paid for
by a couple of shillings; but a love letter is cheap at three and
sixpence, for it requires an infinity of each."

"Then I may as well wish you good day at once, Sir, for I have but
half-a-crown in the world that I can call my own, and I cannot run into
debt, even to write to Charles." There was a tear in her eye as she rose
to go, and it was a beautiful blue eye, better fitted to smiles than
tears; this was enough, and, even poor as I was, I would not have missed
the opportunity of writing this letter, though I had been a loser by the
task. Happy Charles! I wrote from her dictation, and it is wonderful how
well the heart prompts to eloquence, even among the uneducated and
obscure. In all honesty, though I had but jested with my pretty
employer, this genuine love-letter was well worth the three and
sixpence--it was written, and crossed, and rewritten at right angles,
and covered on the folds and under the wafer, and, finally, unsealed to
insert a few "more last words." It was a very history of the heart!--of
a heart untainted by error--unsophisticated by fashion--unfettered by
the world's ways: a little catalogue of woman's best, and tenderest, and
holiest feelings, warm from the spirit's core, and welling out like the
pure waters of a ground spring. How the eye fell, and the voice sunk, as
she recorded some little doubt, some fond self-created fear; how the
tones gladdened, and the blue eyes laughed out in joy, as she spoke of
hopes and prospects, to which she clung trustingly, as woman ever does
to her first affection. What would I not have given to have been the
receiver of such a letter?--What to have been the idol of such a heart?
And, as she eagerly bent over me to watch the progress of her epistle,
her hand resting on my arm, and her warm breath playing over my brow,