Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where
he was detained by business. It commenced, "My dearest love,
return as soon as possible: I await you with a thousand raptures."
A friend who arrived, brought word, that, for certain reasons, he
could not return immediately. Charlotte's letter was not forwarded,
and the same evening it fell into my hands. I read it, and smiled.
She asked the reason. "What a heavenly treasure is imagination:"
I exclaimed; "I fancied for a moment that this was written to me."
She paused, and seemed displeased. I was silent.