man, and I knew no man who could
or would have sent such a letter to me.

The very mystery stung me to interest. As for the letter itself, it
brought me an uplift of hope and inspiration such as I would not have
believed possible an hour earlier. It rang so truly and sincerely, and
the mere thought that somewhere I had a friend who cared enough to
write it, even in such odd fashion, was so sweet that I was half
ashamed of the difference it made in my outlook. Sitting there, I took
courage and made a compact with myself that I would justify the
writer's faith in me--that I would take up my life as something to be
worthily lived for all good, to the disregard of my own selfish sorrow
and shrinking. I would seek for something to do--for interests which
would bind me to my fellow-creatures--for tasks which would lessen the
pains and perils of humankind. An hour before, this would not have
seemed to me possible; now it seemed the right and natural thing to
do.

A week later another letter came. I welcomed it with an eagerness
which I feared was almost childish. It was a much longer letter than
the first and was written in quite a different strain. There was no
apology for or explanation of the motive for writing. It was as if the
letter were merely one of a permitted and established correspondence
between old friends. It began with a witty, sparkling review of a new
book the writer had just read, and passed from this to crisp comments
on the great events, political, scientific, artistic, of the day. The
whole letter was pungent, interesting, delightful--an impersonal essay
on a dozen vital topics of life and thought. Only at the end was a
personal note struck.

"Are you interested in these things?" ran the last paragraph. "In what
is being done and suffered and attained in the great busy world? I
think you must be--for I have seen you and read what is written in
your face. I believe you care for these things as I do--that your
being thrills to the 'still, sad music of humanity'--that the songs of
the poets I love find an echo in your spirit and the aspirations of
all struggling souls a sympathy in your heart. Believing this, I have
written freely to you, taking a keen pleasure in thus revealing my
thoughts and visions to one who will understand. For I too am
friendless, in the sense of one standing alone, shut out from the
sweet, intimate communion of feeling and opinion that may be held with
the heart's friends. Shall y