It is unfortunate that at such a time as this I cannot see you--it is quite cruelly wicked. There is so much to say, not all in _your_ favor either. Some day I shall learn to bring out and keep before me that higher self of yours, which _now_ I do not fear. I also have a higher self, though it does not show itself very often. It is a self which can meet that self of yours without flinching, but which loves it, and stretches out its arms to it--which knows that without that self of yours it cannot, _will_ not live. It is hard to realize such a thing, but I beseech you no longer, I am going with you. You see now, I have no fear of your not taking me--I simply have no fear of this. If I had, I could not write you this way. But you have been the means of showing me I _can_ awaken, and that I was not meant to live the life of the people around me. Chance tried hard to put me to sleep forever, but you have roused me. Dear me, how I smile to myself at my confidence! But I am so sure--this feeling would not be in my heart if it had no meaning! I was not meant for this life I am leading. I am not afraid because I have no proof that I am a genius, and no prospect of being one at present. I do not know whether what you have must come as an inspiration direct from God, I do not know whether I am _capable_ of winning any of this life that you are seeking; but I do know this--I’m going to have the chance to try, and you are going to give it to me. Do you suppose I could tell you that I am willing to stay at home and let you leave me? I have not even any fear now of your wishing to leave me. Why, I wouldn’t hold my life at a pennyworth if you were out of it! “You are my only means of breathing, you fool,” I thought. I sometimes wonder how you could think of leaving me, when I feel as I do at present. I ask myself why it is that you know nothing of it, and why it does not make you put out your hand in gladness to me--how you could write me that all my letters showed you I did not want to struggle to lead your life! My words are failing me now--this is probably the reason you know nothing about me. Besides, when I have written you before this, I have been worrying and doubting and afraid. I am none of these now; and I do not believe I am deluding myself--in fact I _know_ I am not. _I shall be your wife._ It is indeed a pity I cannot talk to you now--yes, a very great pity. It is also rather incomprehensible, that you can imagine leaving me _now._ And all my letters have told you that I wish to be petted and cuddled, did they? If you were here, I do not know that it would do any good to give my feelings vent, it would profit me nothing to strike you, and what could I do? I cannot hate you--it is not natural that one should hate one’s husband. Some day, oh, _some_ day, I tell myself--you will no lonnger play and trifle with me and my soul!