“There is another thing I must write, and I write it with a consciousness of burning cheeks. At times I find him--rather, I feel him--looking at me with a certain gentleness when I am not observing. What does that mean? Have I learned men so badly that I can mistake its meaning? The most convenient woman will do for the man who may prefer another but inaccessible one. Until we came closer together since the avalanche passed and the sunshine came, I was not a woman to him. No; I was a Duty. But there has now come into his voice and his glance a new quality,--stay! Remember that the weakness of women is their vanity. Could there happen so wonderful a thing as this man’s regard for me of the kind that a woman wants from the man whom she worships? If so, is he too proud, too reserved, too conscious of his present obligation of duty and protection, to make it known? Does he still fear me? Does he still hold in his heart the frightful denunciation that he hurled at me? Does he still loathe me as a murderess? Is my wealth a barrier? Does he lack the courage to dare what every man must dare in order to secure the woman he loves? “Loves? Why did I write that word? By what authority or right? And yet, of all the words that the sunshine of the soul has placed upon the tongue, that is the sweetest.... “Distressing things have happened since I wrote the foregoing. For a time the stimulation of sunshine and hope, the sure prospect of _my_ release from this prison, worked miracles with his strength, both of body and mind; but three days ago he grew silent and moody, then restless and anxious; by night he was down with a fever, the cause of which I cannot understand. When I see his fleshless chest and arms, I wonder if he has some malady that is killing him, and that he has concealed from me. His drawn face, with the skin tight to breaking on his cheek-bones, and his extreme emaciation, look like consumption; but he has no other symptoms, and he declares that he is perfectly sound. Is my presence so distressing that it alone is killing him? If so, it is murder for me to stay longer. If I only knew! “Why does he conceal anything from me? What could he have to conceal that it is not right for me to know? And yet I know that the act of concealment could not thus be killing him,--it is the thing he is concealing that has the terror. It would be infinitely better for us both if he let me share it, and, as I am so much stronger than he, I could bear it so much better; the sharing of it would lighten his burden, and my sympathy would give him strength. Why cannot he see all this, when it is so clear to me? I must be patient, patient, patient! That is my watchword now.