Last spring, I had succeeded in bringing myself into an almost complete state of coma--I saw that I could do nothing, and because I would not endure such profitless pain I drugged myself to sleep. And you, you fiend, waked me up; and may your soul be thrice cursed if you have only pulled the doll to pieces _to see what it was made of!_ Know, you that have a soul which says it lives and suffers--that I can’t go to sleep again! There is no joy for me in mother or father, in friends or admiration--I can tolerate nothing that I tolerated before you came with your cursed or blessed fire! Also, if you do not marry me, or if I do not find some man who has your strength and desire for life, and who will take me and help me to learn, I shall die without having lived.--And I cried out in misery--only forty-two years, only forty-two little years, and I shall be an old woman of sixty! Only forty-two years in which to learn to live! I believe if I had you here now I could almost strangle you. We may kill each other some day. I sometimes feel that there is nothing that will give me any relief, that I cannot breathe, I cannot support my body. But these are foolish and unprofitable feelings--and I believe I will yet be saved, if not by you, perhaps by myself. I think some heavenly aid came to me to-day. I asked for it, I simply said it _must_ come--and now I am able to bear myself and look around me, and say that the secret of my liberation is not death but life. Please realize, Thyrsis, that I know you do not need me, that I cannot either entertain you or help you. My dear, do you not know that I have been conscious of this from the very beginning--and it has been this thought that has often made me worry, and doubt, and question. And then I have told myself that you had found _something_ in me to love; and that I also was very hungry to know about life and God; and that if you loved me enough to believe I was not dross, we might, with our untiring devotion--well, we might be right in going with each other. And now--would you rather I should tell you I will not marry you, be my desire, or effort, what it may? I do not know--even though I want to live so terribly. I have no word, no proof to give! And now, Thyrsis, I have no more strength to write. I only wish I had some power to make you know what I have felt this afternoon--I think if I could, you would have no more doubt of me. And I believe it is my God-given right not to doubt myself. I will write no more--I have written enough to make you answer one of two things. “Come with me,” or, “I would rather go alone.” I know which one it will be, even now in my wretchedness. The sky is so blue this evening, and everything is so beautiful--and I am trying so hard to be right, to feel strong and confident! XI Dear Thyrsis: