el from the Indian idol never carried away
so large a draft on the world's happiness as this that I have stolen. I
cannot be repentant while this golden glow is upon me; later I shall begin
to question my own worthiness.

I cannot now tell you one half that is in my mind to write, or answer one
half the questions in your letter. Jack is living with me just at present,
but of him I will speak next time. I have planned to change my abode, but
of that too next time. And I would not attempt to give a name to the deity
I serve in a postscript, as it were. Dear Heart, only let your love add a
little to your happiness as it has added so much to mine; and trust me.--I
am sending a letter to your father, the contents of which you might
imagine even if he should not show it to you.

XXX

JESSICA TO PHILIP

WRITTEN BEFORE THE RECEIPT OF THE PRECEDING LETTER

MY BELOVED:

Last night, I dreamed myself away to you. I walked beside you, a little
wraith of love, through the silent night streets of your great city,--but
you did not know me. There was no sky above us, only a hollow blackness,
and the snow lay new and white upon the pavements; but I wore green leaves
in my hair and a red Southern rose on my breast to remind you of a brown
forest maid and summer-time far away--and you would not see me! I faced
you in gay mockery and swept a bow, but the blue silence in your eyes
terrified me. I held out my hands beseechingly, touched my cheek to yours,
and you did not feel the pressure. Then I slipped down upon the snow and
wept, and you did not hear me.

We were both "in the spirit," I think. Only, dear Love, when I am in the
spirit, all my thoughts are of you; but though I looked far and near, I
could not find in all your regions one little thought of poor Jessica. All
was misty and dim within your portals. _Your_ thoughts were vague ancient
shapes that wandered past me like Brahmin ghosts. And not one gallant
memory of Jessica legended upon those inner walls of yours!

Dear, I cannot escape now, my heart _will_ not come back to me; and since
it is too late I will not complain. But for a little while I must tell you
these things and pray for your kind comfort, till I shall have become
accustomed to your attic moods and exaltations.

Do you recall the woman I told you of last summer, whose sorrow-smitten
face in the church terrified me so? Grief became credible to me as I gazed
at her. And could it have been, do you thin