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this picture haunts me day & night,

"when other hearts are hushed to rest,

& other eyes are closed in sleep, I wake

& weep" : I sit by "his" grave & water it

with tears of blood almost, & wonder

how "my heart can beat, while "his"

responds no more" : Sweet Sister, with

my own garlands of flowers, I always

twine one for you to place on that

sacred mount, & sincerely long to

have you kneel beside me there, &

mingle your tears with mine:


When your last letter was received, I

eagerly tore open the envelope & turned

to the signature, not that your own

dear handwriting was not recognized,

but that I might know at once how

my last had been received & as my

eyes rested on those two little words,

penned by your own hand, what a

thrill of joy I felt: oh, it was such a

sweet, sweet letter & again so much

like "His", the blinding tears almost