Livy dear, I think it is Tues Wednesday Ⓐemendation, & yet I feel almost certain that it is as much as Thursday Ⓐemendation— though lying in bed the last day or two being a thing I have never been used to,—& being alone, also, & the rain seeming never to cease its dreary dirges day or night—the time has so dragged, dragged, dragged, that when the lagging sun goes down at last it seems as if I cannot remember when it rose, it was such an age ago. So I try to think it is only Wednesday, though a month has surely drifted by in these long-drawn hours. I am tired of fretting & chafing. I will leave this bed tomorrow, sick or well. I am not sick enough to deem it imprudent, else I would not make so decided a determination.

If I am writing a foolish low-spirited letter, remember it is to you only, & you will not betray me—you will not reveal its contents. Otherwise I would deny myself the relief of writing, while I am in such a depressed state. I expected to be in Elmira to-day (or is it to-morrow?) but the first mention you made of my intended return was a little discouraging, & so I did not know what to say, & said nothing, in meaning to judge by subsequent events whether— Well, somehow I can’t get my thoughts straight—I am all confused & blundering—I only know that in your last letter there seems an intimation that I am not to see you before I go to California—& yet I was counting so entirely upon the reverse of this. Why Livy, I can’t go away without seeing you. I am only flesh & blood—I cannot do impossibilities. Livy dear, do not be conventional with me—I am not with you. You manifest reserve. Don’t do that. Tell me whatever is in your mind, freely—& let it be in your mind, above all things, that I am to see you before I go. Livy, I am not prying into your secrets—I know you would not accuse me of that—but it did seem uncharacteristic of you to imply that I was coming, & yet never once say “Come!” So I knew Ⓐemendation I thought upon the matter, & put myself in your place, & fancied whether I would use decided language or not—& I knew I would! Wherefore it seemed plain that Livy had something to say to me which she did not say—& it was naughty, Livy darling, very naughty. I thought when I first left that the same pol reasons which made it proper & best for me to go would hold good longer than an absence of two weeks; but still, in my selfish disregard of expediency & my longing to see you, I would have marched back at the end of the fortnight, but that there was such an appalling non-com lack of heartiness in your subsequent references to that matter! Forgive me, Livy, if I hurt you—for you hurt me dreadfully. And we must give & take, dearie. An Only Ⓐemendation I want to have the most of the taking to do. But bless you, darling, I knew you had reasons, & never I just Ⓐemendation accepted my fate with a fair degree of cheerfulness, because of that full confidence & trust which I had & shall always have in you. But I said, “She might tell me—for I am sure I can bear Livy’s decrees handsomely if she will only trust me.” But this last one I don’t get over so easily. This thing of my going to California without seeing you, goes clear beyond my capabilities. Entirely. I honored your other implied wish—& it was no small sacrifice, either—but this time, Livy, what am I to do? I surely thought I would be rewarded for this fortitude of mine, & I know I deserve it—but instead of rewarding me, j you just as good as threaten me with a greater punishment! “Be good, sweet child”—remove this mysterious disability—tell me I may see you—& tell me when—for if I see California before I see you, I will see it not a day earlier than the millennium. There Ⓐemendation, now!

Don’t scold me, Livy dear. I am weak, & savage, & foolish by turns—& I chafe like any prisoner—& it is night, at last, & there is the eternal miserere of the rain. I’ll get up & march down town tomorrow sure—for I must have somebody to talk to—I’m full of talk. I never wanted to hear Bliss talk till to-day—for he is worse than a clatter-mill when he gets started. But he brought my tea up himself a while ago, (tea—that spoonf-victuals Ⓐemendation for infants,) & I thought I could listen to him forever. And now he is gone, sorrow catch him, & left me only the sad melancholy music of the rain. You will laugh at all this, Livy, but I am not used to confinement, & it seems to make a baby of me. If my memory serves me I have been bedridden only once twice Ⓐemendation before in 23 years—cholera Ⓐemendation in St Louis 16 years ago—& 20 y Ⓐemendation hours in Damascus 2 years ago.1explanatory note But I’ll be out of this tomorrow, I’m pretty sure.—I am sure. I would not be here now, but that I have achieved such a ghastly accession to my cold every time I have ventured out. Well, I never had such a cold before—& in strict confidence, between you & me, I never want another one like it. I haven’t done anything for it, because Bliss isn’t worth s a cent for a nurse, & his wife is away on a visit. & won’t be home But when she comes home, in a day or two I—shall be well by that time.

Livy, in one of the first violences of this distemper, I abused Mrs Corey in a letter to you, & now I beg your pardon for it—& Ⓐemendation I beg it in earnest, too. I ought to have been too thoughtful of your feelings to say harsh things to you about your friends—for it is a beautiful trait in your character that you love them so & stand up for them so loyally; & it seems strange to me that I who am so proud of you for it am yet capable of wounding you through that very trait. I Ⓐemendation am a brute. I am very, very sorry, Livy, to have shown you this lack of respect, this want of deference. It has been in my mind very often, since. It is a pity that I cannot think harsh things of people without saying them to you, & so offending a heart that I would so much rather fill with happiness. Forgive me, Livy darling.

You see I am not trying to answer your letters (3 yesterday & to-day, thank you with all my heart, Livy,)—I have no ability to write. You will let me wait till this exasperation of trying to scribble on a book in bed is no longer necessary—I know you will.

But here—this is all wrong. And from this moment I will not chafe any more—not once. I will accept the situation, & in the spirit of the sermon you sent me, say, “God’s will be done.”2explanatory note An easy thing to say, about such a trifle—but could I say it about things of real moment? I hope so. I do not know. One cannot tell till he is tried.

Good-night, Livy. I am glad I to warned you to keep this foolish screed to yourself, dearie. It has been better than medicine to me to write it—& the reason I don’t tear it up is because I think we know each other well enough to not misunderstand each other dreadfully; & love each other well enough to bear with weaknesses & foolishnesses, & even wickednesses (of mine.) {I could not apply those harsh terms to you, because I it did not seem natural—& so my sentence broke down awkwardly.} {But I do love you well enough to bear with those things in you, if I saw them.}

And without any misgivings I mail this letter, which I would tear up if it were written to anybody else. You will not scoff, or get angry at anything my disordered head has framed among its half-coherencies. Thanks for the book, the sermon & the Bible notes.

Good-night. God & his good angels keep you, darling.