too, now I go into it.

Do you know, I keep thinking of Dick Marston's face when he poked it in
at the door of that summer-house yesterday on you and "Robin" and
Theodore and me. I think likely Dick's brain is sprained.

Curious, isn't it--this being knocked back into the necessity of
writing letters--and so soon. But I can say anything now, can't I? It
doesn't seem true, but it is--it is! When I think of that other
letter, that last one, and all the months that I didn't know even where
you were! And now here's the world transfigured. It _is_ true, isn't
it? I won't wake up into that awful emptiness again? So many times
I've done that. I'd made up my mind nothing was any use. I told Dick,
just before we started on the motor trip. The stellar system had gone
to pieces. But to-night I tore up the letter I'd got ready to send to
the rector. All those preparations, and then to walk down a gravel
path into heaven. It isn't the slightest trouble for you to rebuild
people's worlds, is it? As for instance, Theodore's. I must tell you
that some incoherences have come in from that Gift of God, by way of
the pilot, after they'd sailed. Mostly regarding Cousin Robin. Even
that has worked out. And there's Halarkenden--mustn't I say McGregor,
though?--going back home to wander at large in paradise. Three new
worlds you set up in half an hour. I think you said once that you'd
never done anything for anybody? Well, you've begun your job; didn't I
tell you it might be just around the corner? Besides "Cousin Robin,"
two things stuck out in Theodore's epistle; he's going to turn himself
loose for the benefit of those working people in his factories, and
he's going to have "The Cairns" swept and garnished for you and me
when--when we get there.

This is all true. I am sitting here, writing to her. She is going to
be there when I get back. I am to have her for my own, to look at and
to listen to and to love. She has said that she wanted it like that--I
heard her say it. Oh my dear darling, there aren't any words to tell
you--you are like listening to music--you are the spirit of all the
exquisite wonders that have ever been--you are the fragrant silence of
shut gardens sleeping in the moonlight. What if I had missed you?
What if I'd never found you? You _will_ be there when I come back--you
won't vanish--you _are_ real? Think of the life opening out for you
and me; this world now; afterwards the next. Oh