There is a dreadful sort of letter which I wrote you last night
which I haven't sent you yet.

I have been studying, or trying to most of the day, and my mind has
wandered most painfully. There were two days in which I seemed to
have hold of myself, but with an effort that was a fearful strain. I
must try so, that it almost kills me, if I wish to accomplish even a
little of what I ought. The heat here is almost insupportable, it is
stifling, and I spent an hour or so in the water this afternoon.

And the thought is always torture to me--that you are accomplishing
so much more than I! I was thinking of your letters to-night, and I
recalled some words that seemed to speak more of your love for me.
Oh, Thyrsis, if your letters are fiery and passionate, is it for
love of _me_ that they are? I'm almost afraid at times, when I read
your letters--when you tell me of the kind of woman you _want_ to
love.

I at present am certainly not she. And do you know that when we are
married we shall be united forever? I don't know why I write you
these things, they are not at all inspiring thoughts to me.

And yet I was able to go in swimming this afternoon, and forget
everything and frolic around as happily as any water-baby!

VII

MY DEAR CORYDON:

I came off to write my poem, but I have been thinking about you, and