that lost plans naturally gravitate to him. But there is no use
to grouch further. I seem to be born a loser. Anyway, I haven't
lost you and I still have Dana Meade.

I have nothing else to tell you except that Mr. Snow has waited
for me two evenings out of the week ever since I wrote you, and
he has taken me in his car and simply forced me to drive him for
an hour over what appeals to me to be the most difficult roads he
could select. So far I have not balked at anything but he has
had the consideration not to direct me to the mountains. He is
extremely attractive, Linda, and I do enjoy being with him, but I
dread it too, because his grief is so deep and so apparent that
it constantly keeps before me the loss of my own dear ones, and
those things to which the hymn books refer as "aching voids" in
my own life.

But there is something you will be glad to hear. That unknown
correspondent of mine is still sending letters, and I am crazy
about them. I don't answer one now until I have mulled over it
two or three days and I try to give him as good as he sends.

I judge from your letters that you are keeping at least even with
Eileen, and that life is much happier for you. You seem to be
broadening. I am so glad for the friendship you have formed with
Donald Whiting. My mother and Mrs. Whiting were friends. She is
a charming woman and it has seemed to me that in her daughter
Louise she has managed a happy compound of old-fashioned
straightforwardness and unswerving principle, festooned with
happy trimmings of all that is best in the present days. I hope
that you do become acquainted with her. She is older than you,