It was written in a fair female hand, with sharp points instead of curves to the letters, but still very legible, and looking as though there were a decided purport in every word of it.
DEAREST JOHN, It feels so strange to me to write to you in such language as this.

And yet you are dearest, and have I not a right to call you so?
And are you not my own, and am not I yours?
[Again he crunched the paper up in his hand, and, as he did so, he muttered words which I need not repeat at length.
But still he went on with his letter.] I know that we understand each other perfectly, and when that is the case, heart should be allowed to speak openly to heart.

Those are my feelings, and I believe that you will find them reciprocal in your own bosom.

Is it not sweet to be loved?
I find it so.

And, dearest John, let me assure you, with open candour, that there is no room for jealousy in this breast with regard to you.