rebellion,
burning and slaying all within my borders. I am a heathen Hittite in
father's vineyard. I have profaned all his scriptures and confounded all
his doctrines, until I think now the only boon he prays for is
deliverance.

But one thing I have learned, dear knight of my heart,--submitting to a
paternal edict does not change the course of nature, although true love
often runs less smoothly on that account. You cannot make a wren out of a
redbird, even if you are the God of both. And not all the prayers in
heaven can save a little white moth from her candle, once she has felt it
shining upon her wings. Just so, some charm of light in you, some clear
illumination of things that reaches far beyond all the doctrines I know,
draws me like a destiny. It does not appear whether I shall live in a gay
rhythm around it or drop dead in the flame, and it no longer matters. Like
the poor moth, all I know is that I can neither live nor die apart from
it.

And this brings me to the point of telling you why I have the courage to
break my promise and to write again. I have had what father calls a
"revelation," when he is about to construe life for me according to the
prayers he has said. But in no sense does my revelation resemble the
Christian shrewdness of his. It has all the grace of a heathen oracle,
and, father would say, all the earthly fallacies of one! For, indeed, my
life is so near and kin to Pan's that my vision never goes far beyond the
green edges of this present world. So! draw near, then, while I tell your
fortune according to the shadows of my own destiny!--as near as you were
that day when we read the old Latin poet together under the trees in our
forest,--for in some ways your fortune resembles the scriptures of
Catullus. They are dual, and the ethics they prove are romantic, too,
rather than ascetic.

I have a mind to begin at the beginning and to run again over the long
fairy trail of our love, so that we may see more clearly where our good
stars agree. And oh, dear Philip, my heart craves to talk with you.
Silence to you is the rare atmosphere where your wings expand and bear you
swiftly upward and ever upward. But I--I cannot soar, I cannot breathe in
that silence. I am writing, writing, to save my heart from the madness of
this long restraint. I am comforting myself with this story of our
love--until you come, for you will come, Philip. Well, the beginning was
when a certain poor little Eve escaped from h