Dear Mother: I’m always writing you in spirit—ain’t that enough? I write all my other letters by the hand (& brain) of an amanuensis—but yours I think out myself though I do not set them down on paper. I have wholly lost the habit of letter-writing, & you know I never did have it in a largely developed way. My correspondence grew upon me to such an extentⒶemendation that it stopped all of myⒶemendation labor, nearly, & so wasⒶemendation destructive to our bread & butter. I have been emancipated, for a good while, but I am soon to lose my private secretary,2explanatory note now, & don’t know what I shall do, for there are few people whom Livy will allow in the house. I shall go to Europe, then

O, I could give you a world of gossip about our cubs, but I won’t, because you & Mollie must come & hear it from our lips & see the brats themselves. It will be worth the journey, I promise you. We hope you will step in here in April or May, before we make our June exodus. Please won’t you? Livy says we will do the same by you as soon as the children are old enough to release us from the bondage of our service to them. Come—you can’t ask anything fairer than that.3explanatory note

Your letter was lovely. It shows that you are at peace in your sould & & haven’t anything to do. Nobody can write like that who has any responsibilities.4explanatory note

I have written to Mollie. It was doleful to news to me that she had “come out.” She ain’t a little girl any more, now. I’m not writing to you, now—this is only a postscript. I shall write you a letter by & by.