always lyric. Farewell.



NO. XIV. THAT OTHER WORLD.

(_Miss Armstrong writes with a calm heart_.)

I have but a minute before I must go down to meet _him_. Then it will be
settled. I can hear his voice now and mother's. I must be quick.

So you tested me and found me wanting in "inevitableness." I was too much
clay, it seems, and "pagan." What a strange word that is! You mean I love
to enjoy; and, perhaps you are right, that I need my little world. Who
knows? One cannot read the whole story--even you, dear master--until we
are dead. We can never tell whether I am only frivolous and sensuous, or
merely a woman who takes the best substitute at hand for life. I do not
protest, and I think I never shall. I, too, am very sure--_now_. You have
pointed out the path and I shall follow it to the end.

But one must have other moments, not of regret, but of wonder. Did you
have too little faith? Am I so cheap and weak? Before you read this it
will all be over.... Now and then it seems I want only a dress for my
back, a bit of food, rest, and your smile. But you have judged otherwise,
and perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will think so. Only I know that
the hours will come when I shall wish that I might lie among those little
white gravestones above the beach.

CHICAGO, November, 1893.