DEAR GERTIE When I came away, the first man that wrote me a letter only two days after the Servia had steamed out of New York Bay was you. And now that I am coming home, the last letter which I write from the Old World to any man in America shall be to you. For I want to tell you myself that I shall see you on September 22. I suppose you will not be quite able to run over to the wharf at East Boston when the Cephalonia gets in, but I shall come up to see you just as soon as the custom house people let me out of prison, after I have paid the duties upon all the heaps of presents I have got for you !
Wasn’t it good that the baths at Sharon helped you so much ? I was at a place the other day where the people take baths for rheumatism. It is called Bad Gastein, but it isn’t bad at all ; it is very good. It is away back in the hills, and there ‘s a tremendous water-fall which runs right through the house, and keeps up such a racket that you can’t get any sleep. But that does no great harm, because you have to take your bath so early that, if it were not for the waterfall in the next room, you would sleep over and never get your bath at all, and so some time you might have the rheumatism all your life. I didn’t have any rheumatism, so I went and took a bath for yours, and I rather think that is what made you feel so much better. You thought it was the baths you were taking at Sharon, but it was really the bath I was taking at Bad Gastein ?
I wonder how soon you will come and see me when I get back. Everybody here eats his breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner outdoors. I like it, and think I shall do so myself when I get home ; so when you come to breakfast, we will have our table out on the grass plot in Newbury Street, and Katie shall bring us our beefsteak there. Will it not make the children stare as they go by to school ? We ’11 toss the crumbs to them and the robins. But you must hurry and get well, or we cannot do all this. My love to Agnes and
Tood. Your affectionate uncle, P.