Letter XLIX

Dearest: I suppose your mother's continued absence, and her unexplanation
of her further stay, must be taken for unyielding disapproval, and tells
us what to expect of February. It is not a cordial form of "truce": but
since it lets me see just twice as much of you as I should otherwise, I
will not complain so long as it does not make you unhappy. You write to
her often and kindly, do you not?

Well, if this last letter of hers frees you sufficiently, it is quite
settled at this end that you are to be with us for Christmas:--read into
that the warmest corners of a heart already fully occupied. I do not think
of it too much, till I am assured it is to be.

Did you go over to Pembury for the day? Your letter does not say anything:
but your letters have a wonderful way with them of leaving out things of
outside importance. I shall hear from the rattle of returning fire-engines
some day that Hatterling has been burned down: and you will arrive cool
the next day and say, "Oh yes, it is so!"

I am sure you have been right to secure this pledge of independence to
yourself: but it hurts me to think what a deadly offense it may be both to
her tenderness for you and her pride and stern love of power. To realize
suddenly that Hatterling does not mean to you so much as the power to be
your own master and happy in your own way, which is altogether opposite to
her way, will be so much of a blow that at first you will be able to do
nothing to soften it.