My darling Ruth,
Your card came this morning, and for the first time I began to get an idea of the looks of Ouray. I hadn’t expected such rugged and rocky mountains. You will certainly be able to do a bit of climbing if you want to do that. How did they ever happen to drop a town into such an isolated bowl anyhow? Is there snow on the peaks now?
Perhaps you tire of hearing it, but sweetheart the days since you left have seemed years to me—and they become longer all the time. Your return is about the only thing I find myself looking forward to; that, and next June. Oh, my dearest, was there ever anyone as fortunate as I? You are so sweet and lovely—and you love me! That is the surprising thing. If I were a praying person I should thank God every hour of the day for the miracle which has happened—and so I do if there be any God. And, my beloved, I love you so much that your absence seems to have left me only a part of a man—my heart is utterly gone, and you have it somewhere or another among your belongings. Still more surprising, perhaps, is the fact that I’m glad to have my happiness depend upon someone else for the first time in my life.
As usual there is no news. The only excuse for writing is to tell you again that oldest story, which to everyone who loves is a new and lovely one. So again turn your ear close for the whisper,
I love you with all my heart,
Harold