t believe it's all my fault, and I know
it's not yours. It's our two worlds. You see you _couldn't_ fit me in.

"I used to be afraid it must end like that. Yet most of the time I felt
so secure--that was the wonder of you--that you could make me so
beautifully secure. And your brother, Katie, have you told him? I don't
care if you do, only if you tell him anything, won't you try and make him
understand everything? I couldn't bear it to think he might think me--oh
those things I don't believe you really think me.

"If you don't see me any more, you won't think those things. It's easier
to understand when things are all over. It's easier to forgive people who
are not around. After what's happened I couldn't be Ann if I were with
you. That's spoiled. But if _I_ go--I think maybe Ann can stay. For both
our sakes, that's what I want.

"'Twas a lovely dream, Katie. The house by the river--the big trees--the
big flag that waved over us--the pretty dresses--the lovely way of
living--the dogs--the men who were always so nice to us--Last night I
dreamed you and Worth and I were going to a wedding. That is, it started
out to be a wedding--then it seemed it was a funeral. But you were
saying such funny things about the funeral, Katie. Then I woke up--"

The letter broke off there.

CHAPTER XXIX

The next morning Katie did something which it had been in her mind to do
for some time. She went to Centralia.

It was not that she expected Centralia to furnish any information about
Ann. It was hard to say just why she was so certain Ann had not gone back
to Centralia. The conviction had something to do with her belief in Ann.

Centralia, however, might be an avenue to something. Furthermore, she
wanted to see Centralia. That was part of her passion for seeing the
thing as a whole, realizing it. And she had a suspicion that if anything
remained to forgive Ann it would be forgiven after seeing Centralia.

And back of all that lurked the longing to tell Ann's father what she
thought of him.

Katie was in a strange mood that day. She had read Ann's letter many
times, but had never finished it with that poignantly personal heartache
of the night before. It was as if she were not worthy that new thing
which kept warm in her own heart. For she had been hostile to the very
thing from which the warmth in her own heart drew. The sadness deepened
in the thought that the great hosts of the world's people sheltered joy
in their own