feels. And then,--why, I spoiled my truthful day by a lie at the
end. How could I go to those two old dears and say, "I cannot pray
with you or go to church any more, I am an infidel." How could I? I
said instead, "My mother brought me up in a different faith; I tried
to go to your church, but I cannot, and I think you would not wish
me to act against my conscience in so sacred a matter, so we will go
our ways."

Oh, what a struggling world it is! And how weary one becomes of the
incessant strife when those upon whose hearts one might lean are far
away, unknown, or dead! Oh, I am very lonely. What is life without
love? It is not to be borne. Do you remember what it was to lie in
your cot, to watch the firelight on the ceiling, feeling the
darkness without; and, as you lay snug in your little world within
the world, to see your mother lean over your pillow, a great
Heaven-roof of love,--to be lifted, weak and small and trustful, in
her arms, to feel your weary head pressed close against her breast?
O Constance, I would give all--my very eyesight--to feel an arm
about me in the dark, to yield up Self, to rest. We women are poor
wretches; no man would ever feel so, I think.

Good night; my candle has burned low in the socket, the paper is
flaring already, I shall have to undress in the dark.

Good night, dearest.
E