Of course, happiness of such shallow origin could be but brief; yet, while it lasted it was genuine and exquisite: a bubble⁠—but a sweet bubble⁠—of real honeydew. Dr. John had written to me at length; he had written to me with pleasure; he had written with benignant mood, dwelling with sunny satisfaction on scenes that had passed before his eyes and mine⁠—on places we had visited together⁠—on conversations we had held⁠—on all the little subject-matter, in short, of the last few halcyon weeks. But the cordial core of the delight was, a conviction the blithe, genial language generously imparted, that it had been poured out not merely to content me ⁠—but to gratify himself . A gratification he might never more desire, never more seek⁠—an hypothesis in every point of view approaching the certain; but that