derstand the faults and virtues of the other. But to
me it seems that love is a flame, illumining everything in a moment.

Porter came while I was writing that--and made me walk with him up and
down, up and down. He was afraid I might get chilled. Of course he
means to be kind, but I don't like to have him tell me that I must
"make an effort"--it gives me a sort of Mrs. Dombey feeling. I don't
wonder that she just curled up and died to get rid of the trouble of
living.

I knew while I walked with Porter that people were wondering who I
was--in my long black coat, with my hair all blown about. I fancy that
they won't link my name, sentimentally, with the Knight of the Auburn
Crest. Beside Grace and Delilah I look like a little country girl.
But I don't care--my thick coat is comfortable, and my little soft hat
stays on my head, which is all one needs, isn't it? But as I write
this I wonder where the girl is who used to like pretty clothes. Do
you remember the dress I wore at Constance's wedding? I was thinking
to-day of it--and of Leila hippity-hopping up the stairs in her one
pink slipper. Oh, how far away those days seem--and how strong I
felt--and how ready I was to face the world, and now I just want to
crawl into a corner and watch other people live.

Leila is much braver than I. She takes a little walk every morning
with her father, and another walk every afternoon with Porter--and she
is always talking to lonesome people and sick people; and all the while
she wears a little faint shining smile, like an angel's. Yet I used to
be quite scornful of Leila, even while I loved her. I thought she was
so sweetly and weakly feminine; yet she is steering her little ship
through stormy waters, while I have lost my rudder and compass, and all
the other things that a mariner needs in a time of storm.

_Before the storm._

The fog still hangs over us, and we seem to ride on the surface of a
dead sea. Last night there was no moon and to-day Aunt Frances has not
appeared. Even Delilah seems to feel depressed by the silence and the
stillness--not a sound but the beat of the engines and the hoarse hoot
of the horns. This paper is damp as I write upon it, and blots the
ink, but--I sha'n't rewrite it, because the blots will make you see me
sitting here, with drops of moisture clinging to my coat and to my
little hat, and making my hair curl up in a way that it never does in
dry weather.

I wonder, if you were