"Words could never tell how much I love you, or how I rejoice in your love for me: you are truly my other, my best, half, and I don't know how I could live without you." "Our mutual love is a cause for great gratitude to God," he said reverently.

"There are so many miserably unhappy couples, I feel that I can never be thankful enough for the little wife who suits me so entirely." "You are my very greatest earthly blessing," she replied, lifting her head, and gazing into his face with eyes shining with joy and love; "and your words make me very, very happy.

Now," releasing herself from his embrace, "it's time to attend to business, isn't it?
I am ready to write if you will dictate." And she seated herself before the desk, and took up her pen.
It was not a lengthened epistle.

He began with an acknowledgment of the receipt of his mother's letter, expressed his sympathy in the sorrow and suffering at Viamede, gave a brief account of his accident, consequent illness, and partial recovery, highly eulogizing Zoe as the best of wives and nurses.
When he began that, her pen ceased its movement, and was held suspended over the paper, while, blushing deeply, she turned to him with a remonstrance.
"Don't ask me to write that: I am ashamed to have mamma see it in my handwriting." "Go on," he said: "she will know they are my words, and not yours." "Well, I obey orders," she replied with a smile; "but I don't half like to do it." "Then let me," he said.

"If you will hold the desk on the arm of my chair for five minutes, and give me the pen, I can finish up the thing easily, and without the least danger of hurting my precious self." She did as directed.