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STRAIT IS THE GATE 162

I wrote again, however, lengthily, tenderly. After my third letter I received this note:


“My friend, “Do not imagine that I have made any resolution not to write to you; I merely no longer take any pleasure in writing. And yet your letters still interest me, but I reproach myself more and more for engrossing so much of your thoughts. “The summer is not far off. I propose that we give up our correspondence for a time, and that you come and spend the last fortnight ofSeptember with me at Fongueusemare. Do you accept? If you do, I have no need of a reply. I shall take your silence for consent, and hope, therefore, that you will not answer.”


I did not answer. No doubt this silence was only the last trial to which she was subjecting me. When, after a few months 'work and a few weeks' travel, I returned to Fongueusemare, it was with the most tranquil assurance.


How should I, by a simple recital, make clear at once what I myself understood at first so ill? What can I paint here save the occasion of the

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