How dare you call him M. Lenoble, by the bye? I have counted the
occasions on which you write of him in your nice long letter, and for one
Gustave there are half a dozen M. Lenobles. It must be Gustave in future
to me, remember.
What shall I tell you, dear? I have nothing to tell, really nothing. To
say that I wish you were with me is only to confess that I am very
selfish; but I _do_ wish for you, dear--my friend and adopted sister,
my old school companion, from whom, willingly, I have never concealed
one thought.
Valentine called on Tuesday afternoon; but I have nothing to tell you
even about him. Mamma dozed in her corner after her cup of tea, and Val
and I sat by the fire talking over our future, just like you and M.
Lenoble on board the Calais boat. How much engaged people find to say
about the future! Is it our love that makes it seem so bright, so
different from all that has gone before? I cannot fancy life with
Valentine otherwise than happy. I strive to picture trials, and fancy
myself in prison with him, the wind blowing in at broken windows, the
rain coming through the dilapidated roof and pattering on the carpetless
floor; but the most dismal picture I can paint won't seem dismal if his
figure is a part of it. We would stop the broken windows with rags and
paper, we would wipe up the rain with our pocket-handkerchiefs, and sit
side by side and talk of the future, as we do now.
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