r child. I
could not do it, I'm sure--not even for my child if I had one. You are
wiser than most of us fools who have choked our lives in the mud of New
York. To men, dear, you are a cold Alp. Snow bound and near to heaven,
impenetrable and frowning with flanks of granite, and yet beneficent.
How do you accomplish it when your heart is wrung from year's end to
year's end?

It must be Machiavellian foresight, precious--foresight that you alone,
out of the whole set, possess. The world never forgives a failure and
never forgives you for telling it the truth, and my standard is truth,
as near as possible, and yours is sacrifice complete. Which is right? We
shall go on begging the question until the end of time. In human
transactions the law of optics seems to be reversed--we always see
indistinctly the things that are nearest to us. You have never judged,
so judge me not.

MARIANNE.

The Black Hills,
September 20.

Dearest Lorna:

A thousand years ago--or maybe it wasn't so long, I can't clearly
remember things any more, time isn't of any consequence, but it was the
day I received my decree, and I returned my railroad tickets to the I.
C. office--Carlton and I packed up some rugs, pillows and luncheon, and
floated down the river to breathe confidences. Far away on the horizon
was a misty hedge of cypress trees darkly traced on a canvas of
lavenders and blues, overhung by extravagant yards of cloudy chiffon.
Nearby the tall alders were all bent to the southward, from the bitter
winds, and looked like huge giants on the march with heavy burdens on
their shoulders. They swayed at times and seemed likely to fall with
their loads. On and on we floated, and on and on they marched.

The country was as tremulous as a bride, and to us nothing seemed
impossible. In such magic moments when enjoyment sheds its reflection on
the future the soul foresees nothing but happiness.

Toward sunset we moored our boat to a tree in a little backwater where
the current was barely felt and mutely watched the changes in the great
turquoise satin tent above us that seemed held aloft by the hills to
shelter the landscape of barley and corn and wheat that swished and
swished like feminine music of taffeta petticoats.

We felt reasons all around us why we should be happy--the trees were
greens and browns--no one like the other, blended i