and God; and that if you loved me enough to believe I was not dross,
we might, with our untiring devotion--well, we might be right in
going with each other. And now--would you rather I should tell you I
will not marry you, be my desire, or effort, what it may? I do not
know--even though I want to live so terribly. I have no word, no
proof to give!

And now, Thyrsis, I have no more strength to write. I only wish I
had some power to make you know what I have felt this afternoon--I
think if I could, you would have no more doubt of me. And I believe
it is my God-given right not to doubt myself.

I will write no more--I have written enough to make you answer one
of two things. "Come with me," or, "I would rather go alone." I know
which one it will be, even now in my wretchedness. The sky is so
blue this evening, and everything is so beautiful--and I am trying
so hard to be right, to feel strong and confident!

XI

Dear Thyrsis:

I have just arisen. I woke in the middle of the night, and there was
a spectre sitting by my bedside to frighten me; he succeeded at
first, but I managed finally to get rid of him, and to find some
peace. Many of your sentences came to me, and I was able to get
behind the words, and I saw plainly that the letters were just what
you should have written, and that they could not but benefit me.
They have accomplished their purpose, I believe--they are burned
into my soul, and have placed me rightly in our relation. I shall