“And now, you funny little Miss Noah from the University of Chicago, don't I know that your heart is blazing forth the assurance that you don't _care_ for any of those things--the world, people, common sense--that you want just love? They made a grand failure of you out at your university; they taught you philosophy and they taught you Greek, and they've left you just as much the woman as women were five thousand years ago. Oh, I know all about you--you little girl whose hair tried so hard to be red. Your soul touched mine as we sat there writing words--words--words, the very words in which men try to tell things, and can't--and I know all about what you would do. But you shall not do it. Dear little copy maker, would a man standing out on the end of a slippery plank have any right to cry to someone on the shore--'Come out here on this plank with me?' If he loved the someone on the shore, would he not say instead--'Don't get on this plank?' Me get off the plank--come with you to the shore--you are saying? But you see, dear, you only know slippery planks as viewed from the shore--God grant you may never know them any other way! “It was you, was it not, who wrote our definition of happiness? Yes, I remember the day you did it. You were so interested; your cheeks grew so very red, and you pulled and pulled at your wavy hair. You said it was such an important definition. And so it is, Miss Noah, quite the most important of all. And on the page of life, Miss Noah, may happiness be written large and unblurred for you. It is because I cannot help you write it that I turn away. I want at least to leave the page unspoiled. “I carry a picture of you. I shall carry it always. You are sitting before a fireplace, and I think of that fireplace as symbolising the warmth and care and tenderness and the safety that will surround you. And sometimes as you sit there let a thought of me come for just a minute, Miss Noah--not long enough nor deep enough to bring you any pain. But only think--I brought him happiness after he believed all happiness had gone. He was so grateful for that light which came after he thought the darkness had settled down. It will light his way to the end. “We've come to Z, and it's good-bye. There is one thing I can give you without hurting you,--the hope, the prayer, that life may be very, very good to you.” The sheets of paper fell from her hands. She sat staring out into Dearborn Street. She began to see. After all, he had not understood her. Perhaps men never understood women; certainly he had not understood her. What he did not know was that she was willing to _pay_ for her happiness--_pay_--pay any price that might be exacted. And anyway--she had no choice. Strange that he could not see that! Strange that he could not see the irony and cruelty of bidding her good-bye and then telling her to be happy!