He likes to have me near him: and though he is peevish and testy with his servants and his dogs, he is gentle and kind to me.

What he would be, if I did not so watchfully anticipate his wants, and so carefully avoid, or immediately desist from doing anything that has a tendency to irritate or disturb him, with however little reason, I cannot tell.

How intensely I wish he were worthy of all this care! Last night, as I sat beside him, with his head in my lap, passing my fingers through his beautiful curls, this thought made my eyes overflow with sorrowful tears--as it often does; but this time, a tear fell on his face and made him look up.

He smiled, but not insultingly.
'Dear Helen!' he said--'why do you cry?
you know that I love you' (and he pressed my hand to his feverish lips), 'and what more could you desire ?' 'Only, Arthur, that you would love yourself as truly and as faithfully as you are loved by me.' 'That would be hard, indeed!' he replied, tenderly squeezing my hand.
August 24th .-- Arthur is himself again, as lusty and reckless, as light of heart and head as ever, and as restless and hard to amuse as a spoilt child, and almost as full of mischief too, especially when wet weather keeps him within doors.

I wish he had something to do, some useful trade, or profession, or employment--anything to occupy his head or his hands for a few hours a day, and give him something besides his own pleasure to think about.