er garden in the South, which
was not according to the record in such matters, and brazened her way into
the office of a certain literary editor in New York. As well as I can
remember she was in search of fame, and she found,--ah, dear Heart,--she
found both love and knowledge. But do you know how terrifying you are to a
primitive original woman such as I was then? I had nothing in my whole
experience by which to interpret the broad white silence of the brow you
lifted to greet me, nor the grave knowledge of your eyes that comprehended
me altogether without once sharpening into a penetrating gaze. I had a
judgment-day sensation, through which I did not know if I should endure! I
was divided between one impulse to flee for my life and the more natural
one to stand and contend for my secrets. Did you know, dear Philip, that
every woman is born with a secret? I did not until that revealing day when
first you encompassed me about with the wisdom of your eyes. Then, all in
a moment, I longed to clasp both hands over my heart to hide it from you.
You talked by rote of literature, but I could not tell of what you were
really thinking. And I answered in little frightened chirups, like a small
winged thing that is blown far out of its course by the gale.

All this happened to me one year ago to-day, dear Philip. But this year
with you I have come a longer distance than in all the years of my life
before. After that desperate visit to New York, I returned to Morningtown,
a delightful mystery to myself, made rich with an unaccountable joy, and
with an inexplicable rainbow arched in my heart's heavens. I did not know
for what I hoped, but suddenly I understood that life's dearest fulfilment
was before me.

After that I do not know how the charm of love worked within my heart,
only that I had always the happy animation of some one newly blessed. And
I had the divine sensation of being recreated, fashioned for some happier
destiny. I lost father's boundary lines of prayer and creed. Some
limitation of my own mind passed away and I entered into a sort of heathen
fellowship with the very spirits of the air. And always I thought only of
you. The very reviews I wrote were, in a sense, remote love letters,
foreign prayers to your strange soul. I even banished distance by some
miracle of love and often sat in spirit upon the perilous ledge of your
window sill.

This feat was not so easy to do at first, for I was much afraid of you.
Your