"He must have got my letter by now. I sent it by Janet this morning. He wasn't there--but by now he must have got home--he is probably reading it at this moment. Whatever happens to me--I want just to say this--to write it down now, while I can--I shall never blame George, and I shall always love him--with all my heart, with all my soul. He has the right to say he can't trust me--I told him so in my letter this morning--that I am not fit to be his wife. He has the right--and very likely he will say it. The terrible thing is that I don't trust myself. If I look forward and ask myself--shall I always feel as I do now?--I can't honestly be sure. There is something in me that wants change--always something new--some fresh experience. I can't even imagine the time when I shouldn't love George. The mere thought of losing him is awful--unspeakable. But yet--I will write it down frankly!--nothing has ever lasted with me very long. It is like the farm. I used to love every minute of the day, every bit of the work, however dull and dirty it was; and now--I love it still--but I seem already--sometimes--to be looking forward to the day when I shall be tired of it. "Why am I made like that? I don't know. But I can't feel that I am responsible. "Perhaps if George forgives me, I shall be so happy that everything will change--my own character first of all. That is my hope. For though I suppose I am vain--though I like people to admire me and make much of me--I am not really in love with myself at all. If I were, I couldn't be in love with George--we are so different. "I don't feel yet that I know him. Perhaps now I never shall. I often find myself wishing that he had something to confess to me. I would hardly let him--he should never humble himself to me. But to feel that I _could_ forgive him something, and that he would owe me something--would be very sweet, very heavenly. I would make it so easy for him. Is he feeling like that towards me? 'Poor child--she was very young--and so miserable!' "I mustn't write like this--it makes me cry. There is a beautiful yellow sunset outside, and the world seems very still. He must be here soon--or a messenger. Janet asked him not to wait. "After all, I don't think I am so changeable. I have just been running myself down--but I don't really believe I could ever change--towards him. Oh, George!--George!--my George!--come to me!--don't give me up. George, darling, you could do anything with me you liked--don't despair of me! In the Gospel, it was the bad women who were forgiven because they loved 'much.' Now I understand why. Because love makes new. It is so terribly _strong_. It is either a poison--or life--immortal life. I have never been able to believe in the things Janet believes in. But I think I do now believe in immortality--in something within you that can't die--when once it has begun to live." * * * * *