rectory near the little church--for
your dreams and mine are to come true, and the little church will be
built within a year.

Yet, I have a garden. A garden of souls. Will you come into it? And
make it bloom, as you have made my life bloom? All that I am you have
made me. When I sat in the Tower Rooms hopeless, you gave me hope.
When I lost faith in myself, it shone in your eyes. When I saw your
brave young courage, my courage came back to me. It was you who told
me that I had a message to deliver.

And I am delivering the message--and somehow I cannot feel that it is a
little thing to offer, when I ask you to share in this, my work.

Other men can offer you a castle--other men can give to you a life of
ease. I can bring to you a life in which we shall give ourselves to
each other and to the world. I can give you love that is equal to any
man's. I can give you a future which will make you forget the past.

Not to every woman would I dare offer what I have to give---but you are
different from other women. From the night when you first met me
frankly with your brave young head up and your eyes shining, I have
known that you were different from the rest--a woman braver and
stronger, a woman asking more of life than softness.

And now, will you fight with me, shoulder to shoulder? And win?

Somehow I feel that you will say "Yes." Is that the right attitude for
a lover? But surely I can see a little way into your heart. Your
letter let me see.

If I seem over-confident, forgive me. But I know what I want for
myself. I know what I want for you. I am not the Roger Poole of the
Tower Rooms, beaten and broken. I am Roger Poole of the Garden,
marching triumphantly in tune with the universe.

As I write, I have a vision upon me of a little white house not far
from the little white church in the circle of young pines--a house with
orchards sweeping up all pink behind it in April, and with violets in
the borders of the walk in January, and with roses from May until
December.

And I can see you in that little house. I shall see you in it until
you say something which will destroy that vision. But you won't
destroy it. Surely some day you will hear the mocking-birds sing in
the moonlight--as I am hearing them, alone, to-night.

I need you, I want you, and I hope that it is not a selfish cry. For
your letter has told me that you, too, are wanting--what? Is it Love,
Mary dear, and Life?

ROGER.