I try to write all this lightly, because my heart is full
in drawing to an end, but when I write of him, my tears will have
their way.
I never look at him but I hear our poor dear Richard calling him a
good man. To Ada and her pretty boy, he is the fondest father; to
me he is what he has ever been, and what name can I give to that?
He is my husband's best and dearest friend, he is our children's
darling, he is the object of our deepest love and veneration. Yet
while I feel towards him as if he were a superior being, I am so
familiar with him and so easy with him that I almost wonder at
myself. I have never lost my old names, nor has he lost his; nor
do I ever, when he is with us, sit in any other place than in my
old chair at his side, Dame Trot, Dame Durden, Little Woman--all
just the same as ever; and I answer, "Yes, dear guardian!" just the
same.
I have never known the wind to be in the east for a single moment
since the day when he took me to the porch to read the name. I
remarked to him once that the wind seemed never in the east now,
and he said, no, truly; it had finally departed from that quarter
on that very day.
I think my darling girl is more beautiful than ever. The sorrow
that has been in her face--for it is not there now--seems to have
purified even its innocent expression and to have given it a
diviner quality. Sometimes when I raise my eyes and see her in the
black dress that she still wears, teaching my Richard, I feel--it
is difficult to express--as if it were so good to know that she
remembers her dear Esther in her prayers.
I call him my Richard! But he says that he has two mamas, and I am
one.
We are not rich in the bank, but we have always prospered, and we
have quite enough. I never walk out with my husband but I hear the
people bless him. I never go into a house of any degree but I hear
his praises or see them in grateful eyes. I never lie down at
night but I know that in the course of that day he has alleviated
pain and soothed some fellow-creature in the time of need. I know
that from the beds of those who were past recovery, thanks have
often, often gone up, in the last hour, for his patient
ministration. Is not this to be rich?
The people even praise me as the doctor's wife. The people even
like me as I go about, and make so much of me that I am quite
abashed. I owe it all to him, my love, my pride! They like me for
his sake, as I do everything I do in life for his sake.
A night or two ago, after bustling about preparing for my darling
and my guardian and little Richard, who are coming to-morrow, I was
sitting out in the porch of all places, that dearly memorable
porch, when Allan came home. So he said, "My precious little
woman, what are you doing here?" And I said, "The moon is shining
so brightly, Allan, and the night is so delicious, that I have been
sitting here thinking."
"What have you been thinking about, my dear?" said Allan then.
"How curious you are!" said I. "I am almost ashamed to tell you,
but I will. I have been thinking about my old looks--such as they
were."
"And what have you been thinking about THEM, my busy bee?" said
Allan.
"I have been thinking that I thought it was impossible that you
COULD have loved me any better, even if I had retained them."
"'Such as they were'?" said Allan, laughing.
