Rummaging through this same dusty book-case, I found in one of the
ill-fitting drawers, beneath a heap of torn and tumbled books, a
diary belonging to the fifties, stuffed with many letters and
shapeless flowers, pressed between stained pages; and there--for
the writer of stories, tempted by human documents, is weak--in
faded ink, brown and withered like the flowers, I read the story I
already knew.
Such a very old story it was, and so conventional. He was an
artist--was ever story of this type written where the hero was not
an artist? They had been children together, loving each other
without knowing it till one day it was revealed to them. Here is
the entry:-
"May 18th.--I do not know what to say, or how to begin. Chris
loves me. I have been praying to God to make me worthy of him, and
dancing round the room in my bare feet for fear of waking them
below. He kissed my hands and clasped them round his neck, saying
they were beautiful as the hands of a goddess, and he knelt and
kissed them again. I am holding them before me and kissing them
myself. I am glad they are so beautiful. O God, why are you so
good to me? Help me to be a true wife to him.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136