The man-devil will say to me: “Look, you little creature, at this beautiful picture of Joy and Happiness. It is the picture of your life as it will be while I am with you--and I am with you for days.” Ah, yes, I will take a last, long farewell of this Mary MacLane. Not one faint shadow of her weary wretched Nothingness will remain. There will be instead a brilliant, buoyant, joyous creature--transformed, adorned, garlanded by the love of the Devil. My mind will be a treasure-house of art, swept and garnished and strong and at its best. My barren, hungry heart will come at last to its own. The red flames of the man-devil’s love will burn out forever its pitiable, distorted, wooden quality, and he will take it and cherish it--and give me his. My young woman’s-body likewise will be metamorphosed, and I shall feel it developing and filled with myriads of little contentments and pleasures. Always my young woman’s-body is a great and important part of me, and when I am married to the Devil its finely-organized nerve-power and intricate sensibility will be culminated to marvelous completeness. My soul--upon my soul will descend consciously the light that never was on land or sea. This will be for days--for days. No matter what came before, I will say; no matter what comes afterward. Just now it is the man-devil, my best-beloved, and I, living in the yellow light. Think of living with the Devil in a bare little house, in the midst of green wetness and sweetness and yellow light--for days! In the gray dawn it will be ineffably sweet and beautiful, with shining leaves and the gray, unfathomable air, and the wet grass, and all. “Be happy now, my weary little wife,” the Devil will say. And the long, long yellow-gold day will be filled with the music of Real Life. My grandest possibility will be realized. The world contains a great many things--and this is my grandest possibility realized! I will weep rapturous tears. When I think of all this and write it there is in me a feeling that is more than pain. Perhaps the very sweetest, the tenderest, the most pitiful and benign human voice in the world could sing these things and this feeling set to their own wondrous music,--and it would echo far--far,--and you would understand. February 20. At times when I walk among the natural things--the barren, natural things--I know that I believe in Something. Why can I not call it God and pray to it? There is Something--I do not know it intellectually, but I feel it--I _feel_ it--with my soul. It does not seem to reach down to me. It does not pity me. It does not look at me tenderly in my unhappiness. My soul feels only that it is there. No. It is not all-loving, all-gracious, all-pitying. It hurts me--it hurts me always as I walk over the sand. But even while it hurts me it seems to promise--ah, those beautiful things that it promises me!