[Boston—Monday, 27 April 1868]
Monday morning. By night as we lie down we pray for him and in the morning I awake dreaming that he has just come to say “good bye”—I see that sharp painful look dart up his brow, like a lightning of grief. I feel his parting kiss on my cheek and see my arms stretched out to hold him—vanished. It was but one dreadful moment, yet now that it is over the pain of it lasts—lasts. We both of us tried to avoid it—but it was inevitable.
Last night as my darling and I watched the lovely new moon setting over our bay we tried to fancy the poor sea-tost friends. They were probably off the banks and saw no such vision.
We find more than enough occupation now we have returned but I felt last night when we stopped to see Mrs Andrew that I understood her grief better than before. Saturday will soon be here, that day of joy to them. He has given orders to have no one at Liverpool but I know of two or three hearts whose joy will be keen as pain. La joie fait peur. God send him calm! and to them—to them.
