I have been with Gandhi several times in the past three days, and early to-morrow I start north for Amritsar to join Nagar. I hadn’t thought of writing this until just now, on my way to bed, and the subject of the Little Man suddenly filled me. I feel an unadulterated American to-night, and there may be an advantage, at least an angle, in a study of Gandhi from that point.... He is very ill, can scarcely stand, but more than ever full of his kind of light and power. In the last three days with him, I have come to understand _you_ as never before--and America and the American soldier. I have found out, Pidge, what you mean by stating and living the fact, that it isn’t how much one knows that counts, but how much one does. Gandhi is a doer. I used to hear in church something about the Spirit being made flesh, and now I’ve got an inkling of what that means. Gandhi’s genius doesn’t dream. _It does._ The sun shines on all India, but Gandhi has become a lens. The rays focalize through him. The ground burns under his feet.... He is called a bigot, a fanatic, a living Blue Law, and it is all true, Pidge. He is drawn in black and white. He has no half-tones, no twilights, no afterglows. He is devoid of atmosphere as the moon. His lines of light and shadow are never blent or diffused. He is vivid noon where his light strikes, densest night where light ends.... It is not that he loathes the West, but that he knows the East. He has become a specialist, as Nagar says repeatedly. He has withdrawn his attention from the world to India, Herself. He has brought in his eyes from the future, to the Now. He sees the next step which India must take, and leaves to the dreamers of the world to point out the glories and the penalties. He stands in the road in front of India to-day, like a man before a runaway horse---- Dicky had ended the letter suddenly, saying he was sleepy, but had more to say later. The two women talked low, because of _another_ in the room. This other was not to be disturbed. They stood over him now. He would not have approved at all of their gayety and know-it-all manner, had he been awake. His lids were down, however; the black curving lashes reposed in their hollows; the world, which was the big horse he must some time ride, was away minding its own business. “I’m glad to hear this much before I go----” Miss Claes stopped and took both of Pidge’s hands. “Before you go--where?” “This little slate of Harrow Street is all written over. It is to be rubbed out now, Pidge. My part is finished here--I don’t know how well, but it’s finished. I am leaving New York.” “Why, that--that seems--insupportable!... Why, I thought anything could happen but that--to my New York!” “Only you are to know, dear,” Miss Claes said moments afterward. “Yes, it is India----” “To Nagar--you are to be with him--the Hills!” “Don’t, Pidge. It isn’t for words----” “Forgive me----”