I lay awake a long time in the night, marvelling at her constancy
and her faith. But then I wept to think how many women, even as she,
have held one only flower in their hands, clung to it still when
colour and scent were gone, refusing to pluck another; wept, too, to
think how many such as she are buoyed up by a hope I cannot share. I
wonder what it feels like, this implicit faith in an after life! It
must make a difference, even in love. Perhaps we who believe in one
life only cling with the greater passion to what we love, seeing
that, once lost, we have no hope of re-possession.

Well, it's a sad world. But a funny one, too. I was quite shy of
meeting Aunt Caroline again this morning, lest the remembrance of
what she had told me over-night should make her feel ill at ease;
lest, in fact, she had repented of her confidence. And I stood quite
a while outside the breakfast-room door, like a fool. But as I
entered, her beaded cap was bobbing over an uplifted dish-cover.

"Oh, good morning, Milly!" she said. "No, sister, it's not Upton's
fault. The bacon's beautiful, only cook can't cut a rasher."

And again I was in my common dilemma; I didn't know whether to laugh
or cry.

Good-bye, sweetest; take care of yourself.




LETTER VII.