self, to read it."

"Indeed, I'll be glad--if you wish me to read it. You know I am deeply
interested in all that touches you."

"I believe I know," answered Billy, handing him the letter across the
table. Dic read to himself:--

----, ENGLAND, 18

"MY DEAR FRIEND: Each Christmas day for many years have I written a
letter to you, but none of them have ever been seen by any eyes
save my own. I have always intended sending them to you, but my
courage upon each occasion has failed me, and none of them has ever
reached you. This one I mean to send. I wonder if I shall do so?
How many years is it, my friend, since that day, so full of
pain,--ah, so full of pain,--when I returned the ring you had given
me, and you released me to another. In your letter you made
pretence that you did not suffer, knowing that I would suffer for
the sake of your pain. But you did not deceive me. I knew then, as
I know now, that you released me because you supposed the position
and wealth which were offered me would bring happiness. But, my
friend, that was a mistaken generosity. Life has been rich in many
ways. I have wealth and exalted position, and am honored and envied
by many. My husband is a good, kind man. I have no children and am
thankful in lacking them. A woman willingly bears children only
for the man she loves. But, oh, my friend, the weariness that never
ceases, the yearning that never stops, the dull pain that never
really eases, have turned me gray, and I am old before my time. I
fear the longing and the pain are sinful, and nightly I pray God to
take them from my heart. At times He answers, in a degree, my
prayers, and I almost forget; but again, He forsakes me, and at
those moments my burden seems heavier than I can bear. One may
easily endure if one has a bright past or a happy future to look
upon. One may live over and over again one's past joys, or may draw
upon a hopeful future; but a dead, ashen past, a barren present,
and a hopeless future bring us at times to rebellion against an
all-wise God because He has given us life. Time is said to heal all
wounds; but it has failed with me, and they, I fear, will ache so
long as I live. I suppose you, too, are old, though you will always
be young to me, and doubtless the sn