Dalmuir Hill August 24th 1852 My own dearest Donald What would I not give if I could sit beside my own dear husband tonight instead of writing to him. Perhaps at the moment you are thinking of your poor Pussy. I sometimes this week feel very dull thinking of her who is gone. Poor Mama, how she struggled to keep up her spirits on our wedding day. How well she looked but it was too much for her. Little did I think this time last year when I was so happy preparing for our marriage that before six months had passed I would have so much sorrow and suffering to undergo. How very great at this time to me is the loss of my dear mother, for what friend can be at my bed like her, who so often nursed me in sickness. I shall never find one who would do for me what she would have done.