"Oh, Emilia!" he cried, "why have you failed me? I have been so
anxious; I feared you were ill."

He said this as a brother might have said it; he looked me full in
the face as serenely as the stars at night. I looked back at him;
his calm fell upon me, and I laughed at myself for my fears. I got
better after that, yet not well; I was never at ease. To-day we were
together very long; I was perfectly happy; we had spoken of
beautiful things, calmly, in great peace. But at parting he forgot
to let my hand go; he held it so long that I had time to feel his,
and my blood bounded through me in great waves. I still think he
must have felt it; if he did, I can never look at him again.

I hate myself for loving him so; I hate myself that I suffer through
him; the fault seems his, being entirely mine.

And now I wish that I had never seen him, that all these days of joy
were wiped out of my life; for the joy is turned to misery and pain,
and for this there can be no cure. If he grew to love me as I do
him, it would be unearthly; such happiness is not for this world. I
think that if he loved me, one of us would surely die. This is the
world, O Constance! Bursts of beauty, bursts of bliss, but none to
live untouched, none to endure.

I have been happy; I should not groan.

Write to me, dear.
Your EMILIA.