glorious chance--you, who told me
that in less than ten of these littlenesses called "years" you might be
allowed to go out into a larger place. Remember, you can't kill your
soul. But, because you have been trusted with personality you can, if
you wish, show an unforgiveable contempt for your beginning life. But,
if you do that--if you treat your single opportunity like that--can you
believe that another will be given you?

You cannot do this thing. I say to you that there are openings in the
box. Find a fissure in the rough wall. Then, look! This isn't
life--only the smallest bit of it. The rest is outside. It is not a
question of God--it is not a question of punishment. It is this--what
are _you_ going to do with your soul?

I wonder if you have read as far as this. I wonder if I have been at
all intelligible?

Will Robert Halarkenden see that you get this thick letter? There is
only one way by which I can know that it found you.

I know that I have been hopelessly inadequate--perhaps grotesque. To
see it and be unable to tell you--imagine the awfulness! Give me
another chance. I was not going to ask that, but I must. Can't you
see I've got to show you? I mean--about another chance--will you not
renew that promise? Will you not send a word in answer to this letter,
and promise once more not to do anything decisive until you have heard
from me again? I am

Sincerely yours,
GEOFFREY McBIRNEY.

FOREST GATE, August 8th.

MY DEAR MR. McBIRNEY--

Robert Halarkenden saw that I got it. You don't know who Robert
Halarkenden is, do you? He's interesting, and likely you never will
know about him--but it doesn't matter. Your letter left me with a
curious feeling, a feeling which I think I used to have as a child when
I was just waking from one of the strong dreams of childhood which
"trail clouds of glory." It was a feeling that I had been swept off my
feet and made to use my wings--only I haven't much in the line of
wings. But it was as if you had lifted me into an atmosphere where I
gasped--and used wings. It was grand, but startling and difficult, and
I can't fly. I flopped down promptly and began crawling about on the
ground busily. Yet the "cloud of glory" has trailed a bit, through the
gray days since. I don't mind telling you that I locked the letter in
the drawer with a shiny little pistol I have had for some time, so that
I can't get to the pistol without seeing the letter. I