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The thought of how glad it
would make his parents if they could see him again, now that they
had buried two fine sons, almost tempted me.
Yet again, it was too soon, too soon. I banished the thought with
angry impatience. But in the still night watches it came and knocked
again. Jacob need not come home just now. We might write and get
acquainted, and get used to the idea of each other, and his old
people could look forward to the joy of having him return in a year
or two.
At last, one night, I got up at two o'clock, sat down at my desk,
and wrote to him in perfect sincerity all that was in my mind
concerning him, and that if he still would have me, I was willing to
go with him to America if he would come for me some time. Strange
to say, Jacob's mother had never sent the letter in which I refused
him a second time. Perhaps she thought his constancy and great
love would at last touch my heart, longing as it was for somebody
to cling to. So that he got my last letter first. But instead of
waiting several years, he came in a few weeks.


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