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“It’s impossible! This must be a passing mood of yours which will vanish. Love is a stronger thing than that! I don’t know the thing that is troubling you—I can’t guess it—but I am sure of you. I know you in a larger, deeper way, and in the end you will never disappoint me in that!
“I am hoping, longing, waiting. Let me come to you! Let me see you face to face, and read there what the matter is!
“Remember that I am still
“Your own,
“R.”
Margaret to Daunt.
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“‘The Beeches,’ Warne.
“I have been touched by your last letter. I had not intended to write again, yet somehow it seems as if I must. Can you read between these lines that I am unhappy? I have been to blame, Richard, so much to blame; but I didn’t know it till afterward.
“I can’t answer your question; it isn’t whether I love you—it’s how. Doesn’t that tell you anything? I mustn’t be mistaken in the way. You must not try to see me; it would only make me more wretched than I am now, and that is a great deal more than I could ever tell you.