“I began in sober earnest to be all my husband wished me; read the books he liked (though it was a terrible bore at first); read to him; took part in all the societies connected with his church, and, in short, became quite a demure pastor’s wife.  Occasionally my old fondness for fun would break out, to the horror of some of his antediluvian flock; but Ernest was very good, and bore patiently with me, and now I am as prim and precise as any old maid of sixty.  At home I do as I like; that is, when Ernest likes it too.  I sing, and play, and romp with the dogs and kittens; but the moment the door bell rings, lo! a demure matron receives her guests!  Ernest’s health is quite restored, and I am as happy as the day is long.  You should see me working in my garden, and sometimes churning before breakfast, to give Ernest a fresh glass of buttermilk.  I would not change places with an empress, I am so happy.  My husband loves me better than everything else beside, and what more could I desire?

“Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some time in our home.  I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely recognize me.  Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up, churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my voice.  Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live with me, and vowed I should not make a ‘drudge’ of myself.  Drudge, indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my husband!  I told her I would ‘drudge,’ as she called it, just as long as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love; whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further argumentation on the subject.

“How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking strawberries or arranging curds for tea!  Come and see me; do, Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if I could only know something of Uncle Guy.  It is almost five years since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing from him.  This is the only sorrow I have.  Sometimes I fear he must have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it.  I want to see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him.  Dear Uncle Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best.  Can’t you tell me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives?  Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any intimation of his coming.  Oh, I hope so!  I endeavor to believe so!  Do write to me.  I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish you were as happy as your friend,

“Pauline.”