swelling and falling when I am moved, like a billow on the ocean.

I find my writing cannot any longer be done in a sitting position in
bed, but I can prop my book on my breast and write lying down.

MARY O'NEILL'S LETTER TO MARTIN CONRAD

_August 9th_, 6 A.M.

MY OWN DARLING,--Strengthen yourself for what I am going to say. It will
be very hard for you--I know that, dear.

To-morrow we were to have gone to the High Bailiff; this day week we
were to have sailed for Sydney, and two months hence we were to have
reached Winter Quarters.

But I cannot go with you to the High Bailiff's; I cannot go with you to
Sydney; I cannot go with you to Winter Quarters; I cannot go anywhere
from here. It is impossible, quite impossible.

I have loved too much, dear, so the power of life is burnt out for me.
My great love--love for my mother, for my darling baby, and above all
for you--has consumed me and I cannot live much longer.

Forgive me for not telling you this before--for deceiving you by saying
that I was getting better and growing stronger when I knew I was not. I
used to think it was cowardice which kept me from telling you the truth,
but I see now that it was love, too.

I was so greedy of the happiness I have had since I came to this house
of love that I could not reconcile myself to the loss of it. You will
try to understand that (won't you, dear?), and so forgive me for keeping
you in the dark down to the very last moment.

This will be a great grief to you. I would die with a glad heart to save
you a moment's pain, yet I could not die at ease if I did not think you
would miss me and grieve for me. I like to think that in the time to
come people will say, "Once he loved Mary O'Neill, and now there is no
other woman in the world for him." I should not be a woman if I did not
feel like that--should I?

But don't grieve too much, dearest. Only think! If I had been strong and
had years and years still to live, what a life would have been before
me--before both of us.

We couldn't have lived apart, could we? And if we had married I should
never have been able to shake off the thought that the world, which
would always be opening its arms to you, did not want me. That would be
so, wouldn't it--after all I have gone through? The world never forgives
a woman for the injuries it inflicts on her itself, and I have had too
many wounds, darling, to stand by your side and be any help to you.

Oh, I know what you wo