it was not for myself—it was for Arthur Huntingdon that they rose.
*****
13th. They are gone—and he is gone. We are to be parted for more than two months—above ten weeks! a long, long time to live and not to see him. But he has promised to write often, and made me promise to write still oftener, because he will be busy settling his affairs, and I shall have nothing better to do. Well, I think I shall always have plenty to say—But O! for the time when we shall be always together, and can exchange our thoughts without the intervention of these cold go-betweens, pen, ink, and paper!
*****
22nd. I have had several letters from Arthur, already. They are not long, but passing sweet, and just like himself—full of ardent affection, and playful, lively humour; but—there is always a but in this imperfect world—and I do wish he would sometimes be serious.
