But men are of a coarser clay. At least I am, and nearly twenty years
had elapsed, and here was I burdened under a load of affection, like a
sack of returned love-letters, with no lap into which to dump them.
“They were all written to another woman, ma'am, and yet I am in hopes
that you will find something in them about yourself.” It would have
sounded oddly to Mary, but life is gray to friendless girls, and
something might have come of it.
On the other hand, it would have brought her for ever out of the wood of
the little hut, and I had but to drop the letter to send them both back
there. The easiness of it tempted me.
Besides, she would tire of me when I was really known to her. They all
do, you see.
And, after all, why should he lose his laugh because I had lost my
smile?
And then, again, the whole thing was merely a whimsical idea.