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                                                                                                                                          Home, Feb. 15. 1851.
My dear friend,
              I cannot tell you how very anxious I feel, to hear some tidings from you. I have heard nothing, since Jan. 4, and a long, long time it had seemed to me. This will be the third letter I have written to you, since then. When I wrote last, I supposed you must have mailed a reply to the first, and that, by some accident, it had been lost. Now, I hardly know what to suppose. I sometimes am fearful that you are sick, and unable to write, or even to dictate to another. The wintry winds, and chilling frosts, perhaps, have proved to severe for endurance. Is it so? If thus, it may be that you are among dear friends, who will kindly watch over you, and "soften all your care." Did I only know that you live, and are in health. Your last letter has been read, and read again, I know not how many times.
    I returned to Dunbarton, at the close of the term at [[?]] {Feb. 8} and have been at home since - happy as usual except that I have felt so much anxiety