I left here last Monday (all alone) for Fredonia, to see my mother & the rest of that family; traveled about 4 hours & stopped over night in Rochester to rest; went on, next day, at 10 a. m., got to F. at 3 p. m., tired out; left again, Thursday, stopped over night in Buffalo, & reached here Friday night. The indescriblable fatigue of the journey remained with me all yesterday & last night (accompanied with rheumatic pains), & amounted to something akin to exhaustion. It is easy to understand what this means: that, physically, I am an old man at 45.—older than some men are at 80. To fly around as I used to do would probably kill me in a month. Consequently I would have a lively dread of a journey to that remote (how far away it does seem!) region where you live. However, it is possible that I may grow young again, by & by, & then I’ll come. But you & Mollie are still young, & you must come to Hartford—do as you would be done by. You have to come to Brooklyn anyway, & then it is only a step. We got a world of restful delight out of you two; & while thanking you for it, would like a few repetitions of it.

I haven’t done anything to that story, except put it in the printers’ hands. I have read ⅔ of it in proof, & I find a stack of it here waiting to be read. So my labors on that work are about ended. I expect to be able to send you a copy about the 1st of December. It is our purpose to publish on that day. It will be a very pretty book.

We shall leave here for Hartford day after tomorrowⒶemendation, unless the weather is very hot. We have rebuilt our kitchen & doubled its size; we have torn out the reception room & made the main hall larger by that much; we have carried the driveway off to the right, patst the greenhouse, & it now enters the avenue a hundred feet east of where it did before; & we have cut lowered that ground & brought the house up into view. In haste, with love to you all.