There needs nothing more deeply to imprint it on my
memory; and, while thus reviewing the past, I should be iniquitously
neglecting the present. What is given to the pen would be taken from
her; and that, indeed, would be--but no need of saying what it would be,
since it is impossible. I merely write to allay these tumults which our necessary separation
produces; to aid me in calling up a little patience till the time
arrives when our persons, like our minds, shall be united forever. That
time--may nothing happen to prevent--but nothing can happen. But why
this ominous misgiving just now? My love has infected me with these
unworthy terrors, for she has them too. This morning I was relating my dream to her. She started, and grew pale. A sad silence ensued the cheerfulness that had reigned before:--"Why
thus dejected, my friend?" "I hate your dream. It is a horrid thought. Would to God it had never
occurred to you!" "Why, surely, you place no confidence in dreams?" "I know not where to place confidence; not in my present promises of
joy,"--and she wept. I endeavoured to soothe or console her. Why, I
asked, did she weep? "My heart is sore. Former disappointments were so heavy; the hopes which
were blasted were so like my present ones, that the dread of a like
result will intrude upon my thoughts. And now your dream! Indeed, I know
not what to do. I believe I ought still to retract--ought, at least, to
postpone an act so irrevocable." Now was I obliged again to go over my catalogue of arguments to induce
her to confirm her propitious resolution to be mine within the week. I,
at last, succeeded, even in restoring her serenity, and beguiling her
fears by dwelling on our future happiness. Our household, while we stayed in America,--in a year or two we hie to
Europe,--should be _thus_ composed. Fidelity, and skill, and pure
morals, should be sought out, and enticed, by generous recompenses, into
our domestic service. Duties which should be light and regular.--Such
and such should be our amusements and employments abroad and at home:
and would not this be true happiness? "Oh yes--if it may be so." "It shall be so; but this is but the humble outline of the scene;
something is still to be added to complete our felicity." "What more can be added?" "What more? Can Achsa ask what more? She who has not been _only_ a
wife----"

But why am I indulging this pen-prattle? The hour she fixed for my
return to her is come, and now take thyself away, quill. Lie there, snug
in thy leathern case, till I call for thee, and that will not be very
soon. I believe I will abjure thy company till all is settled with my
love. Yes; I _will_ abjure thee; so let _this_ be thy last office, till
Mervyn has been made the happiest of men.