Once I did not see him for two whole days, and my heart grew so filled with longing that I wrote a letter to him. Not that I wished to see him or anything like it. No. What I put down on the paper were thoughts that had fallen into my soul, rich, like the raindrops that fall down into a field--visions of such rare, exquisite beauty, that I longed to share them with someone. I was most anxious to see him next day, but did not meet him, nor the next day, nor the next; on the fourth day, at last.... My first impulse was to run and meet him, but it was arrested by a sweet bewilderment that took hold of me whenever I knew him to be near. It seemed as if he wished to hurry on without taking any notice of me, but then he hesitated, stopped, and lifted his hat. I was struck by the strange coolness of his behaviour, and my heart ached within me. "How is it," I asked him, "that we see so little of each other?" He drew a deep breath and looked away from me. "Because it would be very unwise to see more of each other." "Why?" He did not answer at once. "Because," he said at last, "there are wolves in sheep's clothing." "I don't understand that." "Don't you?" "No." "I want to caution you." "What of?" "Of a wolf that runs about in sheep's clothing and whom you trust." "Whom do you mean?" "Myself." The meaning of his words dawned on me at last, but, filled with a happy, deep-felt trust, I shook my head. "You are no wolf in sheep's clothing." He drew a deep breath again, just as he had done before, and looked hard in front of him. "You are mistaken. I am a wolf--a heartless, terrible wolf; one that would never hesitate a second to devour a sheep that comes his way without a shepherd and a hound." I glanced at him, and it seemed to me that his face looked haggard and worn. I grew very quiet and very sad. The whole world looked dark all at once, and the joyous song that, like a glorious promise, had filled my brain and soul ceased with a dissonance. But then a minute later it rose again, shy and soft, at first no more than a quiver, but gaining force and power until it grew into a thrill of notes so sweet and persuasive that I could and would not check them. True that there was something crying within me, but the thing that had rejoiced before was rejoicing still. "Did you get my letter?" I asked him after a while. "Yes, and many thanks for it." "May I write to you again?" He hesitated. "May I?" I repeated. "Yes." It seemed to be wrung from him. "And you will write back?" He hesitated again, much longer than before. "I hardly think so; I mean to say sometimes, perhaps, but never very much." "Only sometimes and never very much!" "Yes; and that only on one condition." "On what condition?" "That nobody shall know of our correspondence." "And why?" "Because it is best for you." "Why for me?" And before he could reply a great anger rose within me. "You are a coward!" He shrugged his shoulders.