. . . . "To-day as I passed your house with Cora, I kept looking at the big front door at which you go in and out so often--_your_ door! I never knew that just a door could look so beautiful! And unconsciously I kept my eyes on it, as we walked on, turning my head and looking and looking back at it, till Cora suddenly burst out laughing, and said: `Well, _Laura_!' And I came to myself--and found her looking at me. It was like getting back after a journey, and for a second I was a little dazed, and Cora kept on laughing at me, and I felt myself getting red. I made some silly excuse about thinking your house had been repainted--and she laughed louder than ever. I was afraid then that she understood--I wonder if she could have? I hope not, though I love her so much I don't know why I would rather she didn't know, unless it is just my _feeling_ about it. It is a _guardian_ feeling--that I must keep for myself, the music of these angels singing in my heart--singing of You. I hope she did not understand--and I so fear she did. Why should I be so _afraid_?" . . . . . . . "Two days since I have talked to You in your book after Cora caught me staring at your door and laughed at me--and ten minutes ago I was sitting beside the _actual_ You on the porch! I am trembling yet. It was the first time you'd come for months and months; and yet you had the air of thinking it rather a pleasant thing to do as you came up the steps! And a dizzy feeling came over me, because I wondered if it was seeing me on the street _that_ day that put it into your head to come. It seemed too much happiness--and risking too much--to let myself _believe_ it, but I couldn't help just wondering. I began to tremble as I saw you coming up our side of the street in the moonlight--and when you turned in here I was all panic--I nearly ran into the house. I don't know how I found voice to greet you. I didn't seem to have any breath left at all. I was so relieved when Cora took a chair between us and began to talk to you, because I'm sure I couldn't have. She and poor Ray had been having one of their quarrels and she was punishing him. Poor boy, he seemed so miserable--though he tried to talk to me--about politics, I think, though I'm not sure, because I couldn't listen much better than either of us could talk. I could only hear Your voice--such a rich, quiet voice, and it has a sound like the look you have--friendly and faraway and wistful. I have thought and thought about what it is that makes you look wistful. You have less to wish for than anybody else in the world because you have Yourself. So why are you wistful? I think it's just because you _are_!