My uncle has had another and more deadly attack.

I see its trace in his face, in his step, in his whole form and bearing.

The only obstacle between us is fading away.
Can I grieve when I think it,--grieve when life with you spreads smiling beyond the old man's grave?
And why should age, that has survived all passion, stand with its chilling frown, and the miserable prejudices the world has not conquered, but strengthened into a creed,--why should age stand between youth and youth?
I feel your mild eyes rebuke me as I write.

But chide me not that on earth I see only you.

And it will be mine to give you wealth and rank! Mine to see the homage of my own heart reflected from the crowd who bow, not to the statue, but the pedestal.
Oh, how I shall enjoy your revenge upon the proud! For I have drawn no pastoral scenes in my picture of the future.