written. However, I feel that I am not writing to a mere stranger, but
to a friend whom I know well. Three times you have entered into my
life, and on each occasion you have come by a different avenue. I was
ill at school when you first appeared to me. It was a poem in a
magazine. It was so full of the spirit of joyousness, so full of
kindliness, so rich in faith and hope, that I cried over it, cut it
out and treasured it, and re-read it often in the lonely hours when
things discouraged me,--things which mean so little to women but so
much to girls. Two years went by, and then came that brave book! It
was like coming across a half-forgotten friend. I actually ran home
with it, and sat up all night to complete it. It was splendid. It was
the poem matured, broadened, rounded. And finally your first play! How
I listened to every word, watched every move! I wrote you a letter
that night, but tore it up, not having the courage to send it to you.
How versatile you must be: a poem, a book, a play! I have seen all
your plays these five years, plays merry and gay, sad and grave. How
many times you have mysteriously told me to be brave! I envy and
admire you. What an exquisite thing it must be to hear one's thoughts
spoken across the footlights! Please do not laugh. It would hurt me to
know that you could laugh at my honest admiration. You won't laugh,
will you? I am sure you will value this letter for its honesty rather
than for its literary quality. I have often wondered what you were
like. But after all, that can not matter, since you are good and kind
and wise; for you can not be else, and write the lofty things you do.

Warrington put the letter away, placed it carefully among the few
things he held of value. It would not be true to say that it left him
unaffected. There was an innocent barb in this girlish admiration, and
it pierced the quick of all that was good in him.