e went a little way together;
then I left him; it was unbearable. It was so beautiful once to be
with him, when we could talk freely of all that is best and noblest
in life. I cannot talk to him now, sometimes I cannot even hear what
he says to me. I cannot see the sky, the broad white earth; I see
him only. I cannot hear the life-sounds about me; I only hear his
footfall in the snow. It is all pain, all dreadful pain, dreadful,
unbearable longing.

Why can't I put an end to all this? Why can't I go to him and say, I
love you, tell me the truth? I know it,--the truth,--he does not
love me; and yet, until I hear his lips say it, a false hope that
reason cannot kill will linger on in my heart,--linger on, I know
it, even when I have placed time and space between him and me.

Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, two
that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity. The vile
weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even we.
Goodnight. Perhaps I shall not write again. I shall send you a
telegram before I start, on Monday.

Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.

EMILIA.

LETTER XXVIII.

February 13th.

Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream. To-morrow morning,
when I awake, I shall find it was not true. Shall I tell it you?

I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch. I keep
wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you
may see it shine. The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my
window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering worlds,--even
Emilia is beautiful to-night! I went to the glass just now, to look
upon the face of happiness, and, instead of myself I saw--Oh, but
why say all this? Why not tell you? I cannot; words are weak, but I
think you can feel it, Constance. Oh, sweetest, I think you can, I
think you know. I am half mad to-night; that is why I write so
queerly. But now I will set it down. I wonder what it looks like,
written down. I shall write it very neatly; it will look pretty.
Gabriel loves me. Do you see? Gabriel loves me. I think I shall
write it again,--Gabriel loves me. I never wrote anything that
pleased me so well, and my heart sings it within me unceasingly. Oh,
of course it is not true; it is just a dream. I think this is how
the dream went.

I sat in the study at the Thatch