Ruth darling,
And again today only disappointment awaited me in the mail-box—when I was so sure that another of your precious letters would be there. Funny how one can get such a grip on the heart of another. If anything should happen to part us it would prove a far greater blight on my spirit than the darkening of the sun would be on my sight. The book “Life Begins at Forty” was wrong in-so-far as I’m concerned—it really begins at twenty eight years and nine months.
Have you done any riding yet? And have you climbed any mountains? Couldn’t we have fun scrambling over the hills together? We shall have someday. Tell me all about your comings and goings—excepting with the miners. By the way, if tomorrow doesn’t bring a letter I shall almost be ready to move on the mines of Colorado in force.
Ray Williams was here for supper tonight. At the present he is sitting over in the rocker smoking his pipe—says to give you his best, etc.
We had 1.96 inches of rain last night and this morning. The cooling effect was something marvelous, but it is warming up already.
Please give my regards to the rest of the family. I’ve been intending to say that every time I wrote, but when I am writing it seems that my thoughts stay on you alone.
There is little else to write, but I must write if there is nothing to say in the way of news, for I must tell you, however indirectly and unsatisfactorily,
I love you, my darling
Harold