Because, you understand, do you not, that going back to Lee will mean going back to freedom? I shall claim my privilege of giving up the money grandmother left me, and of framing my life as seems to suit my conscience and desire—my deep heart’s desire—the best. That was where I stood before I went to Europe, and it is where, after all this time, I still stand. I have tried to see things as my relatives wished me to, but I have not succeeded. I want to be myself, to make my own choice in matters that concern my happiness, and to be free to use my own powers. Dear Carin, while I was merely considering in a vague, abstract way whether or not I should be able to marry the man of Uncle David’s choice, it was not so hard. He might, by some possibility, choose the right man. But that young man I wrote you of when I was abroad, is expected here soon. His father and Uncle David went to the University of Virginia together, and he is all that Uncle David thinks a man should be. He is a fine fellow, too, Gerald Hargreaves is. I concede that. I want him to be happy—with someone else. He is cultivated, handsome, rich, gracious and good-tempered. This recommends him. But it does not make me love him. It might, only— You know of what my _only_ consists. I cannot forget Keefe. I never hear from him. I no longer even write to Mary Cecily, his sister. She stopped writing me, first, and I inferred that Keefe had, in his pride and sadness, asked her to do so. He would not have any roundabout communications. He would hear from me straight or not at all. So of course I stopped writing. Yet I feel that he remembers. Oh, Carin, I feel that he does. But whether he does or not really makes no difference. I must be true to my own heart, and that will not let me say “I love you” to any man save Keefe. If I were the old-fashioned sort of a girl, I suppose I should not be writing in this way, so frankly and unashamed. But what have I to be ashamed of? I cannot think it is wrong to love Keefe. It seems the rightest thing in the world to me. I feel no confusion of any sort about it. I know my own mind. I can look in it as if it were a nice clean mirror, and I see Keefe there every time. I have just told Delight Ravanel all this. And what do you think she did? She kissed me! I had looked for a sharp scolding. So I am going back home greatly cheered and strengthened. Yet I realize that it is a hard task I have before me—the hardest that ever has come to me. How I do hope I shall prove myself brave. I want to be brave more than anything. I mustn’t cry! I won’t cry! It is too important a matter to cry about.