that I was going to marry you, and I took you out in my
boat intending to make my words come true.

These last few days have been strange days. Perhaps when I have described
them you may find it in your heart to feel sorry for me. The book is
finished. That of itself has left me with a sense of loss, as if I had
put away from me something that had been a part of me. Then--I am going
blind. Do you know what that means, the desperate meaning? To lose the
light out of your life--never to see the river as I saw it this morning?
Never to see the moonlight or the starlight--never to see your face?

The specialist has given me a few months--and then darkness.

Was it selfishness to want to tie you to a blind man? If you knew that
you were losing the light wouldn't you want to steal a star to illumine
the night?--and you were my--Star.

I am going now to my little sister, Mimi. She leaves the convent in a few
days. There are just the two of us. I have been a wayward chap, loving
my own way; it will be a sorry thing for her to find, I fancy, that
henceforth I shall be in leading strings.

It is because of this thing that is coming that I am begging you still to
be my friend--to send me now and then a little letter; that I may feel in
the night that you are holding out your hand to me. There can be no
greater punishment than your complete silence, no greater purgatory than
the thought that I have forfeited your respect. Looking into the future I
can see no way to regain it, but if the day ever comes when a Blind
Beggar can serve you, you will show that you have forgiven him by asking
that service of him.

I am leaving my little Napoleon for you. You once called him a little
great man. Perhaps those of us who have some elements of greatness find
our balance in something that is small and mean and mad.

Will you tell Brooks that you are not bound to me in any way? It is best
that you should do it. I shall hope for a line from you. If it does not
come--if I have indeed lost my little friend through my own fault--then
indeed the shadows will shut me in.

GEOFFREY.

* * * * *

Uncle Rodman writes:

* * * * *

MY BELOVED NIECE:

Once upon a time you and I read together "The Arabian Nights," and when
we had finished the first book you laid your little hand on my knee and
looked up at me. "Is it true, Uncle Rod?" you asked. "Oh, Uncle Rod, is
it true?" And I s