from those near and dear to us, and far away. A letter then, breathing of home and affection, is a treasure; it is like a memento from the dead, for absence is as death in all but that its resurrection is in this life. I felt a new spirit in existence; I lived for him, I hoped to rejoin him. I delighted to hear my own voice in the songs he was soon to hear; I read with double pleasure, that I might remember what he would like: but above all else, painting became my favourite pursuit; every beautiful landscape, every delicate flower, every striking countenance which I drew, would, I thought, be so many proofs how I had remembered him in absence. I almost regretted the fine cool airs of a summer evening, the low sweet songs of the birds: I could make for him no memorials of them. Another letter came; and soon after we prepared for our embarkation, and a second time I crossed the ocean. The voyage which had seemed so short before, I now thought never-ending; every day the bright shining sea and the blue sky seemed more monotonous; a thousand times did I compare our fate to that of the enchanted damsel, in one of Madame de Genlis' tales, who has been condemned by a most malignant fairy to walk straight forward over an unvarying tract of smooth green turf, bounded only by the clear azure of the heavens. But we reached India at last.
What is there that has not been said of the pleasure of meeting, yet who has ever said all that is felt—the flow of words and spirits, the occasional breaks of deep and passionate silence, the restlessness of utter happi-
