When a man sets out to tell the whole truth about himself he has a task before him. Willingly would I have omitted this scandalous episode; not willingly, but gladly. I feel humiliated; I feel unworthy of that great joy which surely will be mine as soon as I can see my Dryad. True, it was for her I did it. I had to humor that antic creature to worm his secret from him. My soul is at peace to-night despite the misery of my mistreated body. Now I must go to bed, and I believe I can sleep. To-morrow--to-morrow--oh, my brothers! did you ever go to bed in the firm belief that to-morrow heaven's gate would open for you? CHAPTER TWENTY IN WHICH I VIEW AN EMPTY WORLD, ACT A HYPOCRITE, AND HEAR A CONFESSION OF LOVE I sometimes wonder why it is that troubles pile up. Why they are not scattered along through our lives, instead of being accumulated, and then dumped upon our heads all at once. It doesn't seem like a fair game to me. It seems as if something was taking advantage of our helplessness. You see a fellow can rally under one or two back licks of Fate, if they are not too hard, and if there's any sort of fighting stuff in him. But when they come often, and come big and strong, his knees get wobbly and his spirit sickens. Is he to blame? I find myself in some such strait to-night, for the open door of heaven which I went to sleep thinking about is not open, at all. It might be--I believe it would be if I could see Celeste, but she is gone. I marvel at the steady hand with which I trace these words. It is not because I do not feel. There are invisible fingers at my throat, and a spiked hand about my heart. Each spasmodic throb seems to thrust the cardiac walls against nettles. If my journal had not progressed so far I think I would end it right here. It appears as if this is to be the logical end anyway. Perhaps when I rise from my work to-night I shall gather up the written sheets and toss them, so much scrap paper, into the black jaws of the old fireplace. I don't know. I have come to look forward to my night's writing. It is not a diary, you see. It is--well, it must be a story, in a way, but how could we call such simple and homely things as I have jotted down a story? I'm sure it is not like the other story I wrote; the book which was published, and which no one would read. I made that up out of the whole cloth. I wonder if people knew--and I wonder if they will believe my word that this is the truth. But if I stop writing to-night I won't have a story. Things have gone on and on, and here I am mortally in love with Celeste Somebody, and elsewhere are the others I have met who have touched my life in various ways. All in suspense, as it were, awaiting developments. I can't end my journal to-night. That is, I can't end it and expect any sane people to put it between book covers. Wouldn't it be an innovation! The thought amuses me in the midst of my heartsickness. But Celeste is gone, and with her gone there is nothing more to say.