dered and happy. I don't believe I ever
shall sleep again--or eat either. But I hope you slept; you must, you
know, because then you will get well faster and can come to me.

Dear Man, I can't bear to think how ill you've been--and all the time I
never knew it. When the doctor came down yesterday to put me in the
cab, he told me that for three days they gave you up. Oh, dearest, if
that had happened, the light would have gone out of the world for me.
I suppose that some day in the far future--one of us must leave the
other; but at least we shall have had our happiness and there will be
memories to live with.

I meant to cheer you up--and instead I have to cheer myself. For in
spite of being happier than I ever dreamed I could be, I'm also
soberer. The fear that something may happen rests like a shadow on my
heart. Always before I could be frivolous and care-free and
unconcerned, because I had nothing precious to lose. But now--I shall
have a Great Big Worry all the rest of my life. Whenever you are away
from me I shall be thinking of all the automobiles that can run over
you, or the sign-boards that can fall on your head, or the dreadful,
squirmy germs that you may be swallowing. My peace of mind is gone for
ever--but anyway, I never cared much for just plain peace.

Please get well--fast--fast--fast. I want to have you close by where I
can touch you and make sure you are tangible. Such a little half hour
we had together! I'm afraid maybe I dreamed it. If I were only a
member of your family (a very distant fourth cousin) then I could come
and visit you every day, and read aloud and plump up your pillow and
smooth out those two little wrinkles in your forehead and make the
corners of your mouth turn up in a nice cheerful smile. But you are
cheerful again, aren't you? You were yesterday before I left. The
doctor said I must be a good nurse, that you looked ten years younger.
I hope that being in love doesn't make every one ten years younger.
Will you still care for me, darling, if I turn out to be only eleven?

Yesterday was the most wonderful day that could ever happen. If I live
to be ninety-nine I shall never forget the tiniest detail. The girl
that left Lock Willow at dawn was a very different person from the one
who came back at night. Mrs. Semple called me at half-past four. I
started wide awake in the darkness and the first thought that popped
into my head was, 'I am going to see Daddy-Long-