LETTER XVIII

_Thursday Morning, Havre, March 12 [1794]._

We are such creatures of habit, my love, that, though I cannot say I was sorry, childishly so, for your going,[5] when I knew that you were to stay such a short time, and I had a plan of employment; yet I could not sleep.--I turned to your side of the bed, and tried to make the most of the comfort of the pillow, which you used to tell me I was churlish about; but all would not do.--I took nevertheless my walk before breakfast, though the weather was not very inviting--and here I am, wishing you a finer day, and seeing you peep over my shoulder, as I write, with one of your kindest looks--when your eyes glisten, and a suffusion creeps over your relaxing features.

But I do not mean to dally with you this morning--So God bless you! Take care of yourself--and sometimes fold to your heart your affectionate

MARY.