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obliged us to let his enter, and I have even seen them braiding their hair.”
Maria of the episcopal garden has left her card in the form of a pair of pigeons.
I could find much repose for the moment in these simple traits of a limited life, and in this pure air, were it not for the state in which I find my baby.
You know, my dear
Mr. Cass, I flattered you with the thought you would be happy in having a child; may you never know such a pang as I felt in kissing his poor, pale little hand which he can hardly lift.
He is worn to a skeleton, all his sweet childish graces fled; he is so weak it seems to me he can scarcely ever revive to health.
If he cannot, I do not wish him to live; life is hard enough for the strong, it is too much for the feeble.
Only, if he dies, I hope I shall, too. I was too fatigued before, and this last shipwreck of hopes would be more than I could bear.
Adieu, dear
Mr. Cass, write when you can; tell me of the world, of which I hear nothing here, of suffering
Rome — always dear, whatever may oppress me — and of yourself.
I add one more extract from a letter, without date, but of the same period, from
