ry of even one perfect moment can never leave us, even if life
be ever so dark and harsh and bitter, there will always be that single
ray of light to illumine the darkness, and keep our steps from utter and
complete stumbling.

"I thought of Terry day and night, and grew so melancholy that my new
found friends were alarmed and suggested hastening the marriage, in
order to let me go South with my husband. This alarmed me terribly and
I begged that no such step should be taken. With much inward trembling,
I proposed that the marriage should be postponed and that I return to
Chicago. They would not listen to this, and I could see in their honest
faces the deepest amazement and a kind of suspicion. So I took refuge in
tears, pleading ill-health and offering no more suggestions.

"That same day I wrote Terry a long letter, in which I told him that I
still loved him, could not forget him, but had taken this step in
desperation because I could no longer endure living among these people
in Chicago, his friends, but not mine; that here in St. Louis I had
found a certain measure of peace and quiet which had lately been
disturbed by the realisation that soon I must decide to take a step
which would perhaps separate us two irrevocably, that I longed more than
words could tell to see him, to look into his face. I could never go
back, I wrote, to that life I had been living, because what I had
learned from him of what life is and what makes it worth living, had
made that thing impossible for me. So, I wrote, I could not go back,
and how, without him, could I go forward? So here I was, weak,
perplexed, and I begged him to write me, to advise me what to do.

"Very soon his reply came--the truest, kindest reply that I could have
received. He too had suffered since I left him, and comprehended only
too well why I had done as I did. Our suffering would help us to gain a
more comprehensive knowledge of life and of each other. And if I still
loved him, I should follow the inclination of my heart and return to
him. We two might start out again, wiser and surer for what had passed.
He assured me of his love, but warned me not to expect too much from
him, that our material comforts would be few, for he was as poor as I,
and however much he might wish to provide better, he knew that, for one
reason or another, he could not. But if I would be content to share his
crust and his love, much happiness and joy might be in store for us. He
finished