"Devil a bit, dear fellow. Though," said he, slowly clenching his right hand into a powerful fist and scowling down at it, "given the occasion--I could be, Perry, y-e-s, madly, brutally--I could kill--do murder, I believe. Oh, pshaw! My Barbara is so sweet, so purely a thing of heaven that sometimes I--I hate myself for not having been better--more worthy. Women are so infinitely better than ourselves, or so infinitely--worse. And she sent you a letter--here it is!" "A letter? Diana? Where?" "A snack of ham or beef first, Perry, love letters don't go over-well on empty stomachs--" But here I caught the letter from him and sat with it in fingers that shook a little, staring at the superscription. "Her writing has improved amazingly!" said I. "Dear fellow," he answered, sharpening the carving knife quite unnecessarily, "go away and read it, seek some quiet spot and leave me to eat in peace." "Thanks, Tony," said I gratefully, and hastened into the next room forthwith, there to read and re-read the superscription, to commit all those tender follies natural to lovers and finally to break the seal. DEAR, DEAR MY PEREGRINE: Very soon we shall see each other, and this thought makes me tremble with alternate happiness and dread. Yes, dread, my Peregrine, because these years have changed me in many ways--oh, shall I please you as I am now? Will you love me as you did when I was only your humble Diana of the Silent Places? For Peregrine, you loved me then so very much, so truly and with such wonderful unselfishness that I am afraid you may not love the Diana of to-day quite so well as the Diana of two years ago. But dear Peregrine, know that my heart is quite--quite unchanged; you will always be the one man of all others, the Peregrine whose generous love lifted me high above my girlish dreams but never oh, never any higher than his own heart. So Peregrine, love me when I come back to you or these long two years will have been lived in vain and I shall run away back to the Silent Places and die an old maid. Perhaps I shall seem strange when we meet, but this will only be because I fear you a little and doubt a little how you may feel towards this new Diana--so love me, let me see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. It is so much easier to write than to say, so I will write it again--Love me, Peregrine, love me because I am yours--now and always. DIANA. Having read this letter I laid it down and took from an inner pocket another letter, somewhat worn and frayed by over-much handling, which bore these words, smudged and blotted a little, though written with painful care.