I hope Wifie has got her house in London; I am exceedingly anxious about those long journeys to London for you, my own. Your husband is very well indeed, and is, I think, actually beginning to grow fat!
I think Queenie ought to congratulate me at being away from the House instead of pitying me.
When I get out I hope to have a good long rest with my own little Wifie somewhere, and to listen to the waves breaking as we used those mornings of spring last May.
MY OWN QUEENIE,--I had written my Queenie a nice long letter which she should have liked very much, but an alarm came before my messenger arrived that we were all going to be searched, and I was obliged to burn it.
I intend to try and send you a letter direct, written between the lines--I find that by rubbing the words after they are dry it removes all the glistening appearance.
Queenie had best not write me direct at any time, but she can send me a word in the usual way as soon as she is able to tell me how she is. Your King will wait very anxiously for that word. Oh, my Queenie, do take care of yourself, and do not run any risk by remaining at E.
It is exceedingly likely that we shall all be released about the end of March, as then the lading time comes, and the tenants will have to decide whether they will pay or not, and as the majority have decided to pay already it is most likely the minority will then follow suit. YOUR OWN KING.
MY OWN DARLING QUEENIE,--I cannot describe to you what a relief your little note was that everything was quite right. Oh, my Wifie, when I had your two short messages of the 14th your poor husband burst into tears and could not hold up his head or think of anything until my darling's note arrived that everything was right.
My own, you must be very good and quiet until you are quite strong again, and do not be in a hurry to get up.
I have only just a minute to close this as my Mercury is waiting. YOUR OWN LOVING HUSBAND.
My baby was born on February 16th, 1882. I was very ill, but the joy of possessing Parnell's child carried me through my trouble. She was a beautiful baby, apparently strong and healthy--for the first few weeks--and with the brown eyes of her father. This child of tragedy rarely cried, but lay watching me with eyes thoughtful and searching beyond the possibility of her little life. I used to seek in hers for the fires always smouldering in the depths of her father's eyes, but could not get beyond that curious gravity and understanding in them, lightened only by the little smile she gave when I came near.