The only respite he allowed himself was the time devoted to correspondence with his wife.  He sent her minute accounts of his work, and received long and loving letters in return.  But time passed, like the Northers themselves.  Four, five, six weeks were gone almost before he had counted them, extending his absence decidedly beyond the date he had originally set for his return, and still there was much to be done.  He had not borne the separation from his wife without pain, and he looked forward to prolonging it with much more than reluctance; but he felt that to leave now would be to spurn the hand of Providence, the more so because, though Ellen had many times anxiously inquired for the date of his return, she had never failed, whenever she wrote, to assure him of her own content so long as he was successful and happy.  He therefore sent her an elaborate statement of the situation, reiterated his readiness to return if she desired it, and begged her to decide for him whether he should remain longer or not.  Why could she not come down and spend a few weeks at Waco? he asked.  She would find pleasant people there, and he could then see her at least once in a while.  He would go back to St. Louis to bring her down.  In any event, he said, he would run up and spend a day or two with her if his stay were to be prolonged.  She wrote in reply that she dreaded to experience the wild life he had so graphically described, and that she could not persuade herself to go down into that primitive country unless she might be with him always.  This she knew to be impossible; and she was convinced also that her presence at any time would prove a hinderance to him in his business.  But if he could come home for a short visit it would make her very happy.  She hoped that he might come very soon indeed.  Still, she added, with her old bravery, he must make no sacrifice to gratify her wishes.  She trusted him implicitly; she knew that he was as impatient to return as she was that he should do so.  He must stay as long as he deemed it best; and even his proposed visit must be given up, if need be.

And so Edward stayed.  The visit to St. Louis was postponed once or twice, and then put off indefinitely.  New commissions were intrusted to him, new opportunities disclosed themselves, new schemes were projected.  He extended his field of work into remote sections of the State, and once made his way as far as the valley of the Rio Grande.  Even in his busiest moments Ellen was never wholly absent from his thoughts, and he never ended a day without the reflection that his return was so much the nearer.  But week followed week into the past, the holidays slipped by, and spring itself overtook him before he could see any definite prospect of getting away.  At last, one morning early in March, he wrote to Ellen from Denison that he should be at home before the end of a week.  The letter had hardly been mailed when he received one from his wife evincing a depression she had never permitted herself to acknowledge before.  She wrote briefly, and, with vague allusions to her health and an avowal of what she called her “lack of firmness,” besought him to return.