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EXPECTING LETTER.--I do not think
life has a suspense more sickening than that
Of expecting letter which does not come.
The hour which brings the post is one that
Is anticipated, the only one from which we
reckon. How long time seems till it comes.
With how many devices do we seek to pass
it little quicker. How we hope and be-
lieve each day will be our last of anxious
waiting! The post comes in, and there is
no letter. How bitter is the disappoint-
mentl and on every repetition it grows more
acute. How immeasureable the time seems
till the post comes in again! The mind ex-
hausts itself in conjectures; illness, even
death, grow terribly distinct to hope in its
agony-hope that is fearl We dread we
know not what; and every heightened day
the misery grows more insupPortable. Eve
ry day the anxiety takes darker shadow.
To know even the very worst Of all we have
foreboded, appears relief.