mid-May 1883

Dear friend,

We have much fear, both for your own strength and the health of your Brother, having heard nothing since we last asked, many days ago.

Will you not when possible, give us but a syllable - even a cheering accent, if no more be true? We think of you and your Sufferer, with intense anxiety, wishing some act or word of our's might be hope or help. The Humming Birds and Orioles fly by me as I write, and I long to guide their enchanted feet to your Brother's chamber.

Excuse me for knocking.

Please also excuse me for staying so long - Spring is a strange Land when our friends are ill.

With my Sister's tenderest alarm, as also my own.

E. Dickinson.