ffections, and they all center in her. In this,
may I not feel without offense that we are of one
mind?

If I had Susan's pen I could tell you more clearly
why I am troubled. I lack her gift, which is also
yours, of expressing what I feel is going on
secretly in another's mind. Mr. Phar and a Mr.
Young, a writer, have been giving Susan some cause
for annoyance lately; but that is not it. Mr.
Hunt, she is deeply unhappy. She would deny it,
even to you or me; but it is true.

My mind is too commonplace for this task. If my
attempt to explain sounds crude, please forgive it
and supply what is beyond me.

I can only say now that when I once told you Susan
could stand alone, I was mistaken. In a sense she
can. If her health does not give way, life will
never beat her down. But--there are the needs of
women, older than art. They tear at us, Mr. Hunt;
at least while we are young. I could not say this
to you, but I must manage somehow to write it. I
do not refer to passion, taken by itself. I am old
enough to be shocked, Mr. Hunt, to find that many
brilliant women to-day have advanced beyond
certain boundaries so long established. You will
understand.

A woman's need is greater than passion, greater
even than motherhood. It is so hard for me to
express it. But she can only find rest when these
things are not lived separately; when, with many
other elements, they build up a living whole--what
we call a _home_. How badly I put it; for I feel
so much more than the conventional sentiments.
Will you understand me at all if I say that Susan
is homesick--for a home she has never known and
may never be privileged to know? With all her
insight I think she doesn't realize this yet; but
I once suffered acutely in this way, and it
perhaps gives me the right to speak. Of course I
may be quite wrong. I am more often wrong than
right.

I venture to inclose a copy of some lines, rescued
last week from our scrap-basket. I'm not a critic,
but am I wrong in thinking it would have been a
pity to burn the