No doubt you are the people and wisdom will die with you. I do not question that. I will admit and believe anything you may assert about yourselves. I do not want your wisdom, your judgment. I want some one to come up over the barren sunset hill. My thoughts are the thoughts of youth, which are said to be long, long thoughts. Your life is multi-colored and filled with people. My life is of the gray of sand and barrenness, and consists of Mary MacLane, the longing for Happiness, and the memory of the anemone lady. This Portrayal is my deepest sincerity, my tears, my drops of red blood. Some of it is wrung from me--wrung by my ambition to tell _everything_. It is not altogether good that I should give you all this, since I do not give it for love of you. I am giving it in exchange for a few gayly-colored things. I want you to know all these passions and emotions. I give them with the utmost freedom. I shall be furious indeed if you do not take them. At the same time, the fact that I am exchanging my tears and my drops of red blood for your gayly-colored trifles is not a thing that thrills me with delight. But it’s of little moment. When the Devil comes over the hill with Happiness I will rush at him frantically headlong--and nothing else will matter. February 25. Mary MacLane--what are you, you forlorn, desolate little creature? Why are you not of and in the galloping herd? Why is it that you stand out separate against the background of a gloomy sky? Why can you not enter into the lives and sympathies of other young creatures? There have been times when you strained every despairing nerve to do so--before you realized that these things were not for you, that the only sympathy for you was that of Mary MacLane, and the only things for you were those you could take yourself--not which were given you. And your things are few, few, you starved, lean little mud-cat--you worn, youth-weary, obscure little genius! Oh, it is a wearisome waiting--for the Devil. February 28. To-day when I walked over my sand and barrenness I felt Infinite Grief. Everything is beyond me. Nothing is mine. My single friendship shines brightly before me, and is fascinating--and always just out of my reach. I want the love and sympathy of human beings, and I repel human beings. Yes, I repel human beings. There is something about me that faintly and finely and unmistakably repels. When my Happiness comes, shall I be able to have it? Shall I ever have anything? This repellent power is not an outward quality. It is something that comes from deeply, deeply within. It is something that was there in the Beginning. It is a thing from the Original. There is no ridding myself of it. There is no ridding myself of it. There is no ridding myself of it. Oh, I am damned--damned!