I cried my eyes out last night and lay awake for hours thinking about my unhappy life. All my pride and hopes have come to this--an irresponsible mind. It makes no difference whether the cause is shell shock or something else, the fact remains that my mind does not work properly--I do things without knowing or remembering what I do. I am sure I cannot live long--what have I to live for? I have made a will leaving my little fortune to Chris--he will never know how much I care for him--and my jewelry to Seraphine, except my silly thumb ring, which is for Roberta Vallis. She loves it. This afternoon _They_ came again. _They_ never were so bad. I was walking down Fifth Avenue and, as I reached the cathedral, I thought I would go in and say my prayers. I love the soft lights and the smell of incense, but just at the door _They_ began insulting me. "Little fool! Little fool! She is going to say her prayers. Ha, ha!" They laughed. I knelt down and breathed an old benediction, shutting my ears against the Voices: "_The peace of God which passeth all understanding--_" "Fauvette! Fauvette!" _They_ mocked me. "_Keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God--_" "She's a pretty little devil. I like her mouth." "_And of his son, Jesus Christ our Lord--_" "Red dress! Red dress! Divan! Divan!" "_And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost--_" "She can't remember it. She's thinking of her lover. She wants to kiss her lover." Then _They_ said gross things and I could not go on. I got up from my knees, heartbroken, and came away. * * * * * _Thursday night._ I thought I should never be happy again, but whatever the future holds for me of darkness and sadness, I have had one radiantly happy day. Christopher telephoned this morning and arrived half an hour later with an armful of roses. He took me to luncheon, then for a drive in the Park, then to tea at the Plaza where we danced to delicious music, and finally to dinner and the theater. He would not leave me. And over and over again he asked me to marry him. He will not hear of anything but that I am to be his wife. He loves me, he worships me, he trusts me absolutely. Nothing that has happened makes the slightest difference to him. Dr. Owen is going to cure me in a few weeks, there is no doubt about it, Christopher says, and anyhow, he loves me. If I were in Europe now I'd make a pilgrimage to the shrine of some saint and heap up offerings of flowers. I _must_ do something to make others happy; my heart is overflowing with gratitude! I thrilled with pride as I walked beside my lover on the Avenue this afternoon. He looked so tall and splendid in his uniform. I love his eyes--his shoulders--everything about him. My Christopher! I am to give him his answer within a week, but--_what answer can I give him?_ * * * * * _Friday morning._