late 1882

Dear friend,

It pains us very much that you have been more ill. We hope you may not be suffering now. Thank you for speaking so earnestly when our Mother died - We have spoken daily of writing you, but have felt unable. The greatest attempt to save her Life had it been successful, would have been fatigueless, but failing, strength forsook us.

No Verse in the Bible has frightened me so much from a Child as "from him that hath not, shall be taken even that he hath." Was it because it's dark menace deepened our own Door? You speak as if you still missed your Mother. I wish we might speak with you. As we bore her dear form through the Wildnerness, Light seemed to have stopped.

Her dying feels to me like many kinds of Cold - at times electric, at times benumbing - then a trackless waste, Love has never trod.

The Letter from the skies, which accompanied your's, was indeed a Boon - A Letter always seemed to me like Immortality, for is it not the Mind alone, without corporeal friend?

I hope you may tell us that you are better.

Thank you for much kindness. The friend Anguish reveals is the slowest to forget.

E. Dickinson.