I often think how strange it is that I should _know_ you--you who
were a sort of legend of my early days--that I should love you is only
a natural result. You seem to me to stand on the confines of that land
where the poor formalities which separate hearts here pass like mist
before the sun, and therefore it is that I feel the language of love
must not startle you as strange or unfamiliar. You are so nearly there
in spirit that I fear with every adieu that it may be the last; yet
did you pass within the veil I should not feel you lost.
I have got past the time when I feel that my heavenly friends are
_lost_ by going there. I feel them _nearer_, rather than
farther off.
So good-by, dear, dear friend, and if you see morning in our Father's
house before I do, carry my love to those that wait for me, and if I
pass first, you will find me there, and we shall love each other
_forever_.
Ever yours,
H. B. STOWE.
The homeward voyage proved a prosperous one, and it was followed by a
joyous welcome to the "Cabin" in Andover. The world seemed very
bright, and amid all her happiness came no intimation of the terrible
blow about to descend upon the head of the devoted mother.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MINISTER'S WOOING, 1857-1859.
DEATH OF MRS. STOWE'S OLDEST SON.--LETTER TO THE DUCHESS OF
SUTHERLAND.--LETTER TO HER DAUGHTERS IN PARIS.--LETTER TO HER SISTER
CATHERINE.
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