“You’ve made a mistake in the last pronoun, I’m certain.” “You will write it to please me, Donald?” “Oh, Maizie, I can’t. It’s all too dear to me.” “Please, Don, try?” “But”— She interrupted my protest. “Donald,” she said, the tenderness in her face and voice softening her words, “before knowing that I loved you, you insisted that debt must be paid. Won’t you pay me now, dear?” “I don’t merely owe you money, Maizie!” I cried. “I owe you everything, and I’m a brute to the most generous of women. Give me the book, dear heart.” “You’ll make it nice, like the rest, won’t you?” she begged. “I’ll try.” And then I laughingly added, “Maizie, you still have the technical part of story-telling to learn.” “How?” “I can’t write all you wish and make it symmetrical. In the first place, we don’t want to spend so much time on Whitely as to give him a fictitious value; and next, to be artistic, we must end with our good-night that evening.” “Well, that will do, if you’ll only tell it nicely.” And that, my dears, is why I write again of those old days, so distant now in time and mood. What is told here is shared with you only to please my love, and I ask of you that it shall be a confidence. And of Another I beg that each of you in time may find a love as strong as that told here; that each may be as true and noble as your mother, and as happy as your father. Good-night, my children. Good-night, my love. May God be as good to you as he has been to me.