Everything brings home to my recollection.
Everything I read, or see, or hear, brings it to my mind.

You told me I should be happy when I once came here, but not an hour passes in which I do not shed tears at thinking of home.

Every hope, however unlikely to be realised, affords me some small consolation.

The morning on which I went, you told me that possibly I might come home before the holidays.
If you can confirm this hope, believe me when I assure you that there is nothing which I would not give for one instant's sight of home.

Tell me in your next, expressly, if you can, whether or no there is any likelihood of my coming home before the holidays.