I am happy, you don't know how happy, to be even this close
to you. I have always wanted to hang out my shingle in this dear
old town. I do not like the East. I am a Westerner and I can't seem
to make myself fit in with the East. I shall always be a Hoosier,
I fear,--and hope. Just the few minutes I have been here in this
familiar old hotel, and the ride through the quiet streets, and
getting off the train at the insignificant little depot, and having
the hackman,--they are taxi-drivers now,--yell out,--"Hello, Davy,"
and run up to shake hands with me,--well, I am so homesick I could
cry. But you know why I cannot come here to live and practise. If
I can't be very, very near to you, Alix darling, I must keep myself
as far away as possible. It is the only way. But if I keep on at
this rate, you will think I am writing a love letter to you, when,
as a matter of fact, I am only asking you if you care to see me
and tell me what I can do to help you now,--if you need the help
of your
Always devoted
DAVID.
P.S.--If you would rather not see me, don't hesitate to say so. I
will understand. And please do not blame mother and Charlie. They
would both die for you, dear.
P.S.S.--You will be pleased to know, I am sure, that I have the
five hundred I still owe you in my pocket, all in brand new bills,
and I think you might give me the happiness of quarrelling face to
face with you about the matter instead of under the protection of
a two-cent stamp.
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