and all would be well. O my little mother, O great and dear one, why
did you leave your child?

I remembered just now that it used to help me once to write things
down. That is what I must do. I will put it away from me; perhaps,
too, it will look so silly in solemn ink that I shall laugh at it
instead of screaming, as I did just now with my face on the pillow.
And now that it comes to the point, I am ashamed of saying it. My
love is making me mad; was there ever such a fool? I have been too
happy, that is the whole truth--far too happy. Poor things, we carry
grief well enough, cold grief; but hot joy cracks the frail vessel.

I have had a wonderful spring, with my two dearests; Constance
sweeter than ever she was, even during her long illness giving some
worth to the hours I might not spend with him, and he ever near.
Then, when we three were together, we were happy, too. How silly of
me to write "were"; they are still there, the summer days are long,
I love them so well, they hold me so dear.

I have not written it. No matter, I feel better; I already begin to
laugh at myself.


_June 4th._--Their eyes met once at supper, only once, and they did
not look at each other when they said good night. Which means most,
to look or not to look? I cannot read clearly yet. And one can
certainly twice ask the same person to pass the salt without its
meaning anything. This is very ugly in me; my better self is filled
with sorrow. Surely it must be in every one's power to quell the
visions of the inmost eye when they rise sinfully, to close their