I can write no longer with this confounded pen.

I will find a better to-morrow.

May the choicest blessings of Heaven go with thee, thou dearest, kindest, best of women." This one was written from the Cape in November: "Write to me constantly; write me pages and volumes.

Tell me the dress thou wearest, tell me thy dreams, anything, so do but talk to me and of thyself.

When thou art sitting at thy needle and alone, then think of me, my love, and write me the uppermost of thy thoughts.