Another letter in pencil.

My Darling,
Another letter in pencil.  But its up in the little bed-room that I write, and there’s no pen and ink here.  My last letter—written yesterday—was mailed to New Orleans.  I hope that you get the letter.  It would be awful to have them be just too late for you at every step.
Gordon and a classmate (Bill something-or-other) arrived yesterday afternoon.  They have had a tough time hitch-hiking, having had to stay over night in Lake George. And this morning Gordon met a nice girl (Nancy thingamagig) at Lake Placid (at the train).  And she’s staying here too.  They go back on Monday.
A little while ago I had Gordon come up here to the little room.  I told him about us all.  If you could have been listening in you’d have been moved to tears of happiness by what he said of you, and the realization that it would have brought you that he and all the children love you—really love you—devotedly, and always will.  He said that there could not be another in the world like you.  And he was so happy—with tears in his eyes—that you were to continue being close to them, and that you were coming here this summer, and that we did really love each other.  It appears—without anything having been directly said—that all the children have felt that our separation would lead to a divorce.  They have feared it, I’d guess:  And are now profoundly relieved that we are not to have a serious ______.  Darling—I am glad to learn that the children have the wisdom and the hearts to know what you always have been and will be to them.  Gordon was much impressed by Sally.------------------I’ve pledged him to absolute secrecy about everything.
That’s all the news from here.  It is you who’ll have exciting events to write about.  But how will you get the time to write?  Anyhow, when you do get time, you will.  I know that.  But still, I’ll keep pouncing on the mail every time it arrives, hoping for another letter from you.  Darling, I love you.
Rockwell