I cannot tell you how it lightens my heart to see a letter from you waiting when I return home in the evenings. Sometimes there are even two and then it is all I can do not to dance to my room to read them, tired as I am.
You are so good to write so often. I do try to write whenever I can. You must understand, my love, I have never worked so hard in all my life. Sometimes I don’t sleep at all.
I try not to be bitter, but there are days when I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to be at Harvard. It would be no easier—I do know that—but even if it were harder I would not mind. I would welcome the opportunity to prove I could do it. As it is, I know I must do my best here.
I am grateful at least to have one friend. I wrote to you last month about Claire Rheardon. Since then, she has shown herself faithfully willing to indulge me in my moods. In return, I try to help her as much as I can in the chemistry class she despises. Tutoring her keeps me from finding it too dull.
I miss you so constantly that the ache in my heart has become a habit. Claire asks me sometimes, about my letters from Paris, for one will slip from my books now and then. I have told her little about you. It may sound strange, but I feel that to talk of you to Claire would almost put you further from me, somehow. I blush to write this, but I sometimes sleep with one of your letters in my hand, if only because I fall asleep reading your dear words over and over.
Be happy and well and do as they tell you, even if you find it a bore. Hard work will make you a great artist, Eden. I know it will. Kiss the name at the bottom of this letter, my only love, my own dear heart. I will kiss it too and it will be our kiss across the ocean.
I am nothing but your own,