“Aug. 20, 1907.

“Rain beating upon the windows and a wind-storm violent and terrible. I came up into my room to go to bed—and suddenly—half undressed—I began thinking and looking at Cæsar's portrait—and wondering. Now I feel that I could have written: ‘Beloved, I could bury my face in the pillow and weep and weep and weep. Here it is night and wind and the rain. You are in a flood of sunlight and daylight and the thunder of traffic—the (wave?) of life. I must possess it, too—I must suffer and conquer—I must leave here—I cannot look ahead into the unutterable grey vastness of misty future years. Do you know that you are all in all—you are my Life… I am bored and miserable to-night, so forgive me. I am sick of barrenness and I want to laugh and I want to listen—Words will not be found—but how Ifeel, and now to bed, hopefully to lie and look into the darkness and think, and weave beautiful scarlet patterns—and hope to dream— My 'cello is better, but I fancy Mr. Trowell is annoyed with me. That must not happen. What is to become of us all—I am so eager—and yet that is all