|Another bright, dazzlingly-bright summer morning, on which I begin
writing to my dear Max. This seems the longest-lasting, loveliest summer
I ever knew, outside the house. Within, all goes on much in the same
way, which you know.
My moors are growing all purple, Max; I never remember the heather so
rich and abundant; I wish you could see it! Sometimes I want you so! If
you had given me up, or were to do so now, from hopelessness, pride, or
any other reason, what would become of me! Max, hold me fast. Do not let
me go.
You never do. I can see how you carry me in your heart continually; and
how you are for ever considering how you can help me and mine. And if
it were not become so natural to feel this, so sweet to depend upon you,
and accept everything from you without even saying "thank you," I might
begin to express "gratitude;" but the word would make you smile.
I amused you once, I remember, by an indignant disclaimer of obligations
between such as ourselves; how everything given and received ought to be
free as air, and how you ought to take me as readily if I were
heiress to ten thousand a-year, as I would you if you were the Duke of
Northumberland. No, Max; those are not these sort of things that give
me, towards you, the feeling of "gratitude,"--it is the goodness, the
thoughtfulness, the tender love and care. I don't mean to insult your
sex by saying no man ever loved like you; but few men love in that
special way, which alone could have satisfied a restless, irritable girl
like me, who finds in you perfect trust and perfect rest.
If not allowed to be grateful on my own account, I may be in behalf of
my sister Penelope.
After thus long following out your orders, medical and mental, I begin
to notice a slight change in Penelope. She no longer lies in bed
late, on the plea that it shortens the day; nor is she so difficult to
persuade in going out. Further than the garden she will not stir; but
there I get her to creep up and down for a little while daily. Lately,
she has began to notice her flowers, especially a white moss-rose, which
she took great pride in, and which never flowered until this summer.
Yesterday, its first bud opened,--she stopped and examined it.
"Somebody has been mindful of this--who was it?"
I said, the gardener and myself together.
"Thank you." She called John--showed him what a good bloom it was, and
consulted how they should manage to get the plant to flower again next
year. She can then look forward to "next year."
You say, that as "while there is life there is hope," with the body; so,
while one ray of hope is discernible, the soul is alive. To save souls
alive, that is your special calling.
It seems as if you yourself had been led through deep waters of despair,
in order that you might personally understand how those feel who are
drowning, and therefore know best how to help them. And lately, you have
in this way done more than you know of. Shall I tell you? You will not
be displeased.
Max--hitherto, nobody but me has seen a line of your letters. I could
not bear it. I am as jealous over them as any old miser; it has vexed
me even to see a stray hand fingering them, before they reach mine. Yet,
this week I actually read out loud two pages of one of them to Penelope!
This was how it came about.
I was sitting by her sofa, supposing her asleep. I had been very
miserable that morning: tried much in several ways, and I took out your
letter to comfort me. It told me of so many miseries, to which my own
are nothing, and among which you live continually; yet are always so
patient and tender over mine. I said to myself--"how good he is!" and
two large tears came with a great splash upon the paper, before I was
aware. Very foolish, you know, but I could not help it. And, wiping my
eyes, I saw Penelope's wide open, watching me.
"Has Doctor Urquhart been writing any thing to wound you?" said she,
slowly and bitterly.
I eagerly disclaimed this.
"Is, he ill?"
"Oh, no, thank God!"
"Why, then, were you crying?"
Why, indeed? But what could I say except the truth, that they were not
tears of pain, but because you were so good, and I was so proud of you.
I forgot what arrows these words must have been into my sister's heart.
No wonder she spoke as she did, spoke out fiercely and yet with a
certain solemnity.
"Dora Johnston, you will reap what you sow, and I shall not pity you.
Make to yourself an idol, and God will strike it down. '_Thou shalt have
none other gods but me._' Remember Who says that, and tremble."
I should have trembled, Max, had I _not_ remembered. I said to my
sister, as gently as I could, "that I made no idols; that I knew all
your faults, and you mine, and we loved one another in spite of them,
but we did not worship one another--only God. That if it were His will
we should part, I believed we could part. And--" here I could not say
any more for tears. .
Penelope looked sorry.
"I remember you preaching that doctrine once, child, but--" she started
up violently--"Can't you give me something to amuse me? Read me a bit
of that--that nonsense. Of all amusing things in this world, there is
nothing like a love-letter. But don't believe them, Dora,"--she grasped
my hand hard--"they are every one of them lies."
I said that I could not judge, never having received a "love-letter" in
all my life, and hoped earnestly I never might.
"No love-letters? What does he write to you about, then?"
I told her in a general way. I would not see her half-satirical,
half-incredulous smile. It did not last very long. Soon, though she
turned away and shut her eyes, I felt sure she was both listening and
thinking.
"Doctor Urquhart cannot have an easy or pleasant life," she observed,
"but he does not deserve it. No man does."
"Or woman either," said I, as gently as I could.
Penelope bade me hold my tongue; preaching was my father's business, not
mine, that is, if reasoning were of any avail.
I asked, did she think it was not?
"I think nothing about nothing. I want to smother thought. Child, can't
you talk a little? Or stay, read me some of Dr. Urquhart's letters; they
are not love letters, so you can have no objection."
It went hard, Max, indeed it did! till I considered--perhaps, to hear of
people more miserable than herself, more wicked than Francis, might not
do harm but good to my poor Penelope.
So I was brave enough to take out my letter and read from it, (with
reservations now and then, of course), about your daily work and the
people concerned therein; all that interests me so much, and makes me
feel happier and prouder than any mere "love-letter" written to or
about myself. Penelope was interested too, both in the gaol and the
hospital matters. They touched that practical, benevolent, energetic
half of her, which till lately has made her papa's right hand in the
parish. I saw her large black eyes brightening up, till an unfortunate
name, upon which I fell unawares, changed all.
Max, I am sure she had heard of Tom Turton. Francis knew him. When I
stopped with some excuse, she bade me go on, so I was obliged to finish
the miserable history. She then asked:--
"Is Turton dead?"
I said, "No," and referred to the postscript where you say that both
yourself and his poor old ruined father hope Tom Turton may yet live to
amend his ways.
Penelope muttered:--
"He never will. Better he died."
I said Doctor Urquhart did not think so. She shook her head impatiently,
exclaiming she was tired, and wished to hear no more, and so fell into
one of her long, sullen silences, which sometimes last for hours.
I wonder whether among the many cruel things she must be thinking about,
she ever thinks, as I do often, what has become of Francis?
Sometimes, puzzling over how best to deal with her, I have tried to
imagine myself in her place, and consider what would have been my own
feelings towards Francis now. The sharpest and most prominent would be
the ever-abiding sense of his degradation,--he who was so dear, united
to the constant terror of his sinking lower and lower to any depth of
crime or shame. To think of him as a bad man, a sinner against heaven,
would be tenfold worse than any sin or cruelty against me.
Therefore, whether or not her love for him has died out, I cannot help
thinking there must be times when Penelope would give anything for
tidings of Francis Charteris. I wish you would find out whether he has
left England, and then perhaps in some way or other I may let Penelope
understand that he is safe away--possibly to begin a new and better
life, in a new world.
A new and better life. This phrase--Penelope might call it our "cant,"
yet what we solemnly believe in is surely not cant--brings me to
something I have to tell you this week. For some reasons I am glad it
did not occur until this week, that I might have time for consideration.
Max, if you remember, when you made to me that request about Lydia
Cartwright, I merely answered "that I would endeavour to do as you
wished;" as, indeed, I always would, feeling that my duty to you, even
in the matter of "obedience," has already begun. I mean to obey, you
see, but would rather do it with my heart, as well as my conscience. So,
hardly knowing what to say to you, I just said this, and no more.
My life has been so still, so safely shut up from the outside world,
that there are many subjects I have never even thought about, and this
was one. After the first great shock concerning Francis, I put it aside,
hoping to forget it. When you revived it, I was at first startled; then
I tried to ponder it over carefully, so as to come to a right judgment
and be enabled to act in every way as became not only myself, Theodora
Johnston, but--let me not be ashamed to say it--Theodora, Max Urquhart's
wife.
By-and-by, all became clear to me. My dear Max, I do not hesitate; I am
not afraid. I have been only waiting opportunity; which at length came.
Last Sunday I overheard my class--Penelope's that was, you
know--whispering something among themselves, and trying to hide it from
me; when I put the question direct, the answer was:--
"Please, Miss, Mrs. Cartwright and Lydia have come home."
I felt myself grow hot as fire--I do now, in telling you. Only it must
be borne--it must be told.
Also another thing, which one of the bigger girls let out, with many
titters, and never a blush,--they had brought a child with them.
Oh, Max, the horror of shame and repulsion, and then the perfect anguish
of pity that came over me! These girls of our parish, Lydia was one
of them; if they had been taught better; if I had tried to teach them,
instead of all these years studying or dreaming, thinking wholly of
myself and caring not a straw about my fellow-creatures. Oh, Max--would
that my life had been more like yours!
It shall be henceforth. Going home through the village, with the sun
shining on the cottages, of whose inmates I know no more than of the New
Zealand savages,--on the group of ragged girls who were growing up
at our very door, no one knows how, and no one cares--I made a vow
to myself. I that have been so blessed--I that am so happy--yes, Max,
happy! I will work with all my strength, while it is day. You will help
me. And you will never love me the less for anything I feel--or do.
I was going that very afternoon, to walk direct to Mrs. Cartwright's,
when I remembered your charge, that nothing should be attempted without
my father's knowledge an consent.
I took the opportunity when he and I were sitting alone
together--Penelope gone to bed. He was saying she looked better. He
thought she might begin visiting in the district soon, if she were
properly persuaded. At least she might take a stroll round the village.
He should ask her to-morrow.
"Don't papa. Oh, pray don't!"--and then I was obliged to tell him
the reason why. I had to put it very plainly before he understood--he
forgets things now sometimes.
"Starving, did you say?--Mrs. Cartwright, Lydia, and the child?--What
child?"
"Francis's."
Then he comprehended,--and, oh, Max, had I been the girl I was a few
months ago, I should have sunk to the earth with the shame he said I
ought to feel at even alluding to such things. But I would not stop to
consider this, or to defend myself; the matter concerned not me, but
Lydia. I asked papa if he did not remember Lydia?
She came to us, Max, when she was only fourteen, though, being
well-grown and hand some, she looked older;--a pleasant, willing,
affectionate creature, only she had "no head," or it was half-turned by
the admiration her beauty gained, not merely among her own class, but
all our visitors. I remember Francis saying once--oh, how angry Penelope
was about it--that Lydia was so naturally elegant she could be made a
lady of in no time, if a man liked to take her, educate and marry her.
Would he had done it! spite of all broken vows to Penelope. I think my
sister herself might have for given him, if he had only honestly fallen
in love with poor Lydia, and married her.
These things I tried to recall to papa's mind, but he angrily bade me be
silent.
"I cannot," I said, "because, if we had taken better care of the girl,
this might never have happened. When I think of her--her pleasant
ways about the house--how she used to go singing over her work of
mornings--poor innocent young thing--oh, papa! papa!"
"Dora," he said, eyeing me closely; "what change has come over you of
late?"
I said, I did not know, unless it was that which must come over people
who have been very unhappy--the wish to save other people as much
unhappiness as they can.
"Explain yourself. I do not understand." When he did, he said
abruptly,--
"Stop. It was well you waited to consult with me. If your own delicacy
does not teach you better, I must. My daughter--the daughter of the
clergyman of the parish--cannot possibly be allowed to interfere with
these profligates."
My heart sunk like lead:--
"But you, papa? They are here; you, as the rector, must do something.
What shall you do?"
He thought a little.
"I shall forbid them the church and the sacrament; omit them from
my charities; and take every lawful means to get them out of the
neighbourhood. This, for my family's sake, and the parish's--that they
may carry their corruption elsewhere."
"But they may not be wholly corrupt. And the child--that innocent,
unfortunate child!"
"Silence, Dora. It is written, _The seed of evil-doers shall never be
renowned_. The sinless must suffer with the guilty; there is no hope for
either."
"Oh, papa," I cried, in an agony, "Christ did not say so. He said, 'Go,
and sin no more.'"
Was I wrong? If I was, I suffered for it. What followed was very hard to
bear.
Max, if ever I am yours, altogether in your power, I wonder, will you
ever give me those sort of bitter, cruel words? Words which people,
living under the same roof, think nothing of using--mean nothing
by them--yet they cut sharp, like swords. The flesh closes up after
them--but oh, they bleed--they bleed! Dear Max, reprove me as you will,
however much, but let it be in love, not in anger or sarcasm. Sometimes
people drop carelessly, by quiet firesides, and with a good-night kiss
following, as papa gave to me, words which leave a scar for years.
Next day, I was just about to write and ask you to find some other plan
for helping the Cartwrights, since we neither of us would choose to
persist in one duty at the expense of another--when papa called me to
take a walk with him.
Is it not strange, the way in which good angels seem to take up the
thread of our dropped hopes and endeavours, and wind them up for us, we
see not how, till it is all done? Never was I more surprised than when
papa, stopping to lean on my arm, and catch the warm, pleasant wind that
came over the moors, said suddenly:--
"Dora, what could possess you to talk to me as you did last night? And
why, if you had any definite scheme in your head, did you relinquish it
so easily?"
"Papa, you forbade it."
"So, even when differing from your father, you consider it right to obey
him?"
"Yes,--except--"
"Say it out, child."
"Except in the case of any duty which I felt to be not less sacred than
the one I owe to my father."
He made no reply.
Walking on, we passed Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. It was quiet and
silent, the door open, but the window-shutter half closed, and there was
no smoke from the chimney. I saw papa turn round and look. At last he
said:--
"What did you mean by telling me they were 'starving?'"
I answered the direct, entire truth. I was bold, for it was your mind
as well as my own I was speaking out, and I knew it was right. I
pleaded chiefly for the child--it was easiest to think of it, the little
creature I had seen laughing and crowing in the garden at Kensington. It
seemed such a dreadful thing for that helpless baby to die of want, or
live to turn out a reprobate.
"Think, papa," I cried, "if that poor little soul had been our own
flesh and blood--if you were Francis's father, and this had been your
grandchild!"
To my sorrow, I had forgotten for the time a part of poor Harry's
story--the beginning of it: you shall know it some day--it is all past
now. But papa remembered it. He faltered as he walked--at last he sat
down on a tree by the roadside, and said, "He must go home."
Yet still, either by accident or design, he took the way by the lane
where is Mrs. Cartwright's cottage. At the gate of it a little ragged
urchin was poking a rosy face through the bars; and, seeing papa, this
small fellow gave a shout of delight, tottered out, and caught hold
of his coat, calling him "Daddy." He started--I thought he would have
fallen, he trembled so: my poor old father.
When I lifted the little thing out of his way, I too started. It is
strange always to see a face you know revived in a child's face--in this
instance it was shocking--pitiful. My first thought was, we never must
let Penelope come past this way. I was carrying the boy off--I well knew
where, when papa called me.
"Stop. Not alone--not without your father."
It was but a few steps, and we stood on the door-sill of Mrs.
Cartwright's cottage. The old woman snatched up the child, and I heard
her whisper something about "Run--Lyddy--run away."
But Lydia, if that white, thin creature, huddled up in the corner were
she, never attempted to move.
Papa walked up to her.
"Young woman, are you Lydia Cartwright, and is this your child?"
"Have you been meddling with him? You'd better not! I say, Franky, what
have they been doing to mother's Franky?"
She caught at him, and hugged him close, as mothers do. And when
the boy, evidently both attracted and puzzled by papa's height and
gentlemanly clothes, tried to get back to him, and again call him
"Daddy," she said angrily, "No, no, 'tis not your daddy. They're no
friends o' yours. I wish they were out of the place, Franky, boy."
"You wish us away. No wonder. Are you not ashamed to look us in the
face--my daughter and me?"
But papa might have said ever so much more, without her heeding.
The child having settled himself on her lap, playing with the ragged
counterpane that wrapped her instead of a shawl, Lydia seemed to care
for nothing. She lay back with her eyes shut, still and white. We may be
sure of one thing--she has preferred to starve.
"Dunnot be too hard upon her, sir," begged the old woman. "Dunnot
please, Miss Dora. She bean't a lady like you, and he were such a fine
coaxing young gentleman. It's he that's most to blame."
My father said sternly, "Has she left him, or been deserted by him--I
mean Mr. Francis Charteris?"
"Mother," screamed Lydia, "what's that? What have they come for? Do they
know anything about him?"
_She_ did not, then.
"Be quiet, my lass," said the mother, soothingly, but it was of no use.
"Miss Dora," cried the girl, creeping to me, and speaking in the same
sort of childish pitiful tone in which she used to come and beg Lisabel
and me to intercede for her when she had annoyed Penelope, "do, Miss
Dora, tell me. I don't want to see him, I only want to hear. I've heard
nothing since he sent me a letter from prison, saying I was to take my
things and the baby's and go. I don't know what's become of him, no more
than the dead. And, miss, he's that boy's father--miss--please--"
She tried to go down to her knees, but fell prone on the floor.
Max, who would have thought, the day before, that this day I should have
been sitting with Lydia Cartwright's head on my lap, trying to bring her
back to this miserable life of hers; that papa would have stood by and
seen me do it, without a word of blame!
"It's the hunger," cried the mother. "You see, she isn't used to it,
now; he always kept her like a lady."
Papa turned, and walked out of the cottage. I afterwards found out that
he had bought the loaf at the baker's shop down the village, and got the
bottle of wine from his private cupboard in the vestry. He returned with
both--one in each pocket--then, sitting down on a chair, cut the bread
and poured out the wine, and fed these three himself, with his own
hands. My dear father!
Nor did he draw back when, as she recovered, the first word that came to
the wretched girl's lips was "Francis."
"Mother, beg them to tell me about him. I'll do him no harm, indeed I
won't, neither him nor them. Is he married? Or," with a sudden gasp, "is
he dead? I've thought sometimes he must be, or he never would have left
the child and me. He was always fond of us, wasn't he, Franky?"
I told her, to the best of my knowledge, Mr. Charteris was living, but
what had become of him we could none of us guess. We never saw him now.
Here, looking wistfully at me, Lydia seemed suddenly to remember old
times, to become conscious of what she used to be, and what she was now.
Also, in a vague sort of way, of how guilty she had been towards her
mistress and our family. How long, or how deep the feeling was, I cannot
judge, but she certainly did feel. She hung her head, and tried to draw
herself away from my arm.
"I'd rather not trouble you, Miss Dora, thank you."
I said it was no trouble, she had better lie still till she felt
stronger.
"You don't mean that. Not such as me."
I told her she must know she had done very wrong, but if she was sorry
for it, I was sorry for her, and we would help her if we could to an
honest livelihood.
"What, and the child too?"
I looked towards papa; he answered distinctly, but
sternly:--"Principally for the sake of the child."
Lydia began to sob. She attempted no exculpation--expressed no
penitence--just lay and sobbed, like a child. She is hardly more, even
yet--only nineteen, I believe. So we sat--papa as silent as we, resting
on his stick, with his eyes fixed on the cottage floor, till Lydia
turned to me with a sort of fright. .
"What would Miss Johnston say if she knew?"
I wondered, indeed, what my sister would say.
And here, Max--you will hardly credit it, nobody would, if it were an
incident in a book--something occurred which, even now, seems hardly
possible--as if I must have dreamt it all.
Through the open cottage door a lady walked right in, looked at us all,
including the child, who stopped in his munching of bread to stare
at her with wide-open blue eyes--Francis's eyes; and that lady was my
sister Penelope.
She walked in and walked out again, before we had our wits about us
sufficiently to speak to her, and when I rose and ran after her, she had
slipped away somehow, so that I could not find her. How she came to
take this notion into her head, after being for weeks shut up
indoors;--whether she discovered that the Cartwrights had returned, and
came here in anger, or else, prompted by some restless instinct, to have
another look at Francis's child--none of us can guess; nor have we ever
dared to enquire.
When we got home, she was lying in her usual place on the sofa, as if
she wanted us not to notice that she had been out at all. Still, by
papa's desire, I spoke to her frankly--told her the circumstances of our
visit to the two women--the destitution in which we found them; and how
they should be got away from the village as soon as possible.
She made no answer whatever, but lay absorbed, as it were--hardly
moving, except an occasional nervous twitch, all afternoon and evening,
until I called her in to prayers, which were shorter than usual--papa
being very tired. He only read the collect, and repeated the Lord's
Prayer, in which, among the voices that followed his, I distinguished,
with surprise, Penelope's. It had a steadiness and sweetness such as I
never heard before. And when--the servants being gone--she went up to
papa, and kissed him, the change in her manner was something almost
startling.
"Father, when shall you want me in the district, again?" said she.
"My dear girl!"
"Because I am quite ready to go. I have been ill, and it has made me
unmindful of many things; but I am better now. Papa, I will try and be a
good daughter to you. I have nobody but you."
She spoke quietly and softly, bending her head upon his grey hairs. He
kissed and blessed her. She kissed me, too, as she passed, and then went
away to bed, without any more explanation.
But from that time--and it is now three days ago--Penelope has resumed
her usual place in the household--taken up all her old duties, and even
her old pleasures; for I saw her in her green-house this morning. When
she called me, in something of the former quick, imperative voice, to
look at an air-plant that was just coming into flower, I could not see
it for tears.
Nevertheless, there is in her a difference. Not her serious, almost
elderly-looking face, nor her manner, which has lost its sharpness,
and is so gentle sometimes that when she gives her orders the servants
actually stare--but the marvellous composure which is evident in her
whole demeanour; the bearing of a person who, having gone through that
sharp agony which either kills or cures, is henceforth settled in mind
and "circumstances," to feel no more any strong emotion, but go through
life placidly and patiently, without much further change, to the end.
The sort of woman that nuns are-made of--or-Sours de la Charité; or
Protestant lay-sisters, of whom every village has some; and almost
every family owns at least one. She will, to all appearance, be our
one--our elder sister, to be regarded with reverence unspeakable, and be
made as happy as we possibly can. Max, I am learning to think with hope
and without pain, of the future of my sister Penelope.
One word more, and this long letter ends.
Yesterday, papa and I walking on the moor, met Mrs. Cartwright, and
learnt full particulars of Lydia. From your direction, her mother found
her out, in a sort of fever, brought on by want. Of course, everything
had been taken from the Kensington cottage, for Francis's debts. She
was turned out with only the clothes she wore. But you know all this
already, through Mrs. Ansdell.
Mrs. Cartwright is sure it was you who sent Mrs. Ansdell to them, and
that the money they received week, by week, in their worst distress,
came from you. She said so to papa, while we stood talking.
"For it was just like our doctor, sir--as is kind to poor and rich--I'm
sure he used to look at you, sir, as if he'd do anything in the world
for you--as many's the time I've seed him a-sitting by your bedside when
you was ill. If there ever was a man living as did good to every poor
soul as came in his way--it be Doctor Urquhart."
Papa said nothing.
After the old woman had gone, he asked if I had any plans about Lydia
Cartwright?
I had one, which we must consult about when she is better,--whether she
might not, with her good education, be made one of the schoolmistresses
that you say, go from cell to cell, instructing the female prisoners
in these model gaols. But I hesitated to start this project to papa--so
told him I must think the matter over.
"You are growing quite a thinking woman, Dora; who taught you, who put
it into your mind to act as you do?--you, who were such a thoughtless
girl;--speak out, I want to know?"
I told him--naming the name of my dear Max; the first time it has ever
passed my lips in my father's hearing, since that day. It was received
in silence.
Some time after, stopping suddenly, papa said to me, "Dora, some day, I
know you will go and marry Doctor Urquhart."
What could I say? Deny it, deny Max--my love, and my husband? or tell my
father what was not true? Either was impossible.
So we walked on, avoiding conversation until we came to our own
churchyard, where we went in and sat in the porch, sheltering from the
noon-heat, which papa feels more than he used to do. When he took my
arm to walk home, his anger had vanished, he spoke even with a sort of
melancholy.
"I don't know how it is, my dear, but the world is altering fast. People
preach strange doctrines, and act in strange ways, such as were never
thought of when I was young. It may be for good or for evil--I shall
find out by-and-by. I was dreaming of your mother last night; you are
growing very like her, child." Then suddenly, "Only wait till I am dead,
and you will be free, Theodora."
My heart felt bursting; oh Max, you do not mind me telling you these
things? What should I do if I could not thus open my heart to you?
Yet it is not altogether with grief, or without hope, that I have
thought over what then passed between papa and me. He knows you--knows
too that neither you nor I have ever deceived him in anything. He was
fond of you once; I think sometimes he misses you still, in little
things wherein you used to pay him attention, less like a friend than a
son.
Now Max, do not think I am grieving--do not imagine I have cause to
grieve. They are as kind to me as ever they can be. My home is as happy
as any home could be made, except one, which, whether we shall ever find
or not, God knows. In quiet evenings such as this, when, after a rainy
day, it has just cleared up in time for the sun to go down, and he is
going down peacefully in amber glory, with the trees standing up so
purple and still, and the moorlands lying bright, and the hills distinct
even to their very last faint rim--in such evenings as this, Max, when I
want you and cannot find you, but have to learn to sit still by myself,
as now, I learn to think also of the meeting which has no farewell, of
the rest that comes to all in time, of the eternal home. We shall reach
that--some day.
Your faithful,
Theodora.