e you
again on earth; I can say anything. I do say anything, don't I? I can
say--I do say--that you have dragged me from the bottomless pit; that
if any good comes of me it is your good--that you--being a shadow, a
memory, an incident--are yet the central figure of this world to me.
If I fall back into the pit, that is not your affair--mine, mine only.
The light that shines around you for me is the only kindly light that
may save me. But it may not. I may fall back. I have the toy in the
drawer yet--covered with letters. Good-by--I am yours always,

AUGUST FIRST.

WARCHESTER,
St. Andrew's Parish House,
October 8th.

You'll never see me again? You'll see me in three days unless you stop
me with a telegram.

I have a curious feeling that all this has happened before--my sitting
here in front of the fire writing to you at one o'clock in the morning.
They say it's one part of the brain working a shade ahead of the rest.
I don't believe that. I do not believe my brain is working at all.
It's spinning around. For days I've been living in the Fourth
Dimension--something like that. It changes the values to have a new
universe whirl up around one. New heavens and a new earth--that's it.
I have given up trying to analyze it. Even if I didn't want to tell
you I couldn't help it. I'm beyond that now, and--helpless. I never
dreamed of its being like this. I never thought much about it, except
vaguely, as anybody does, and here it's come and snatched away the
world.

I don't know how this is going to get itself said. But I can't stop
it. That frightens me, rather; I've been used to ordering myself about
or, at least, to feeling that I could. But that seems to be over. I
don't pretend that I didn't foresee it, or rather that I didn't
recognize it right at the beginning. What I did was to put off
reckoning with it.

I see that I'm going to say things wrong. You have got to overlook
that; I can't help it. I told you my brain wasn't working. For days
I've been in a maze. Then your letter came, late this afternoon, and
that settled it. Do you know what you said? Do you? You said: "If
you were a real man, I wouldn't have exploded like this." A real
man--what do you _think_ I am? That's what I want to know. You'll
find out I'm real enough before you and I are done. Do you suppose
that I have been reading your letters all these weeks--those letters in
which you said yourself you put your soul-