usin
Sarah I see that Richard was never the same after he received Mr.
Darling's letter. I felt a nameless difference. It was not only that I
saw him less frequently, but that he gave me less of himself when I
did see him. I, too, was on guard and never succeeded in being quite
natural. I am not so foolish as to give up to another girl a man who
loves me, simply because she is rich. The thought that worries me
night and day is this: if at the moment he only feels for me
friendship, ought I to let it grow into love when there is another
woman who could give him with herself everything he needs to assure
his career? With Philippa Armstrong for a wife he will have to work
unceasingly, and unless fortune is particularly kind he may not
achieve a large success for many years. If he marries Amy Darling
(soft, silly, spineless little name!) he has house, lands, and money,
all the influence of her father's former business associates, and has,
besides, carried out his own father's wishes.

This is considerable; quite enough to make a man reflect and
vacillate, unless he is so deeply in love already that no temptation
is strong enough to assail him.

Richard Morton, I know, likes to dance with me, sing with me, golf
with me, talk with me, consult with me about his affairs, write
letters to me; and more than that, he doesn't like to have other men
usurp these privileges; but I am not prepared to say that he would
pine away if circumstances removed me altogether from his path. At any
rate, these perplexities have been too much for my peace of mind, and
when Richard Morton announced that he had business which would keep
him in Philadelphia for a month I began to feel physically ill and
unable to bear Cousin Sarah's sympathy, her curiosity, even at last
her proximity. When the doctor advised my coming here to this quiet,
restful place I eagerly embraced the opportunity simply because I
could be alone, and because I need not meet Richard until he had
enjoyed a full month of Amy Darling's society, either succumbing to
its fascination or resisting it, as the case might be.

Would it be nobler of me to give him up before he is really mine,
knowing that in this way I am advancing his worldly interests? This is
the question that I hope solitude will help me to answer, but its
complications and side-issues are so many that I feel dazed by their
number and their difficulty. I went to sleep last night echoing the
old negro's prayer: "Thou