You looked the very Naiad of the place--pure, spiritual, the embodiment of all things lovely.

Forgive this warmth of feeling.

I would not wound the instinctive delicacy of a heart like yours.

Only believe me sincere.
Will you not write to me?
Direct your letters, under cover, to D.C.
L., Baltimore P.O., and they will be immediately forwarded.

I will write you weekly.