gasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and
I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the
ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the
gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in
the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that
I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I'm playing this
game with you very fairly, you see--which sounds conceited and as if
the game meant anything to you, a stranger. But because you are good,
and saving souls is your job, and because you think my soul might get
wrecked, for those reasons it does mean a little I think.

About your letter. Some of it is wonderful. I never thought about it
that way. In a conventional, indifferent fashion I've believed that if
I'm good I'll go to a place called heaven when I die. It hasn't
interested me very much--what I've heard has sounded rather dull--the
people supposed to be on the express trains there have, many of them,
been people I didn't want to play with. I've cared to be straight and
broad-minded and all that because I naturally object to sneaks and
catty people--not for much other reason. But this is a wonderful idea
of yours, that my only life--as I've regarded it--is just about five
minutes anyhow, of a day that goes on from strength to strength.
You've somehow put an atmosphere into it, and a reality. I believe you
believe it. Excuse me--I'm not being flippant; I'm only being deadly
real. I may shoot myself tonight; tomorrow morning I may be dead,
whatever that means. Anyhow, I haven't a desire to talk etiquettically
about things like this. And I won't, whatever you may think of me.
Your letter didn't convince me. It inspired me; it made me feel that
maybe--just maybe--it might be worth while to wiggle painfully, or more
painfully lie still in your "box" and that I'd come out--all of us poor
things would come out--into gloriousness some time. I would hate to