water doesn't grow warmer or the pebbles less sharp while you stand on the beach. But after you've taken the first plunge, you're not sorry, are you? It will not be a pleasant plunge in this instance, but there's a little mermaid you've said you loved waiting to show you all the wonderful ocean. She can't stay on the beach where you met her, but she will be with you always if you only come to her, out there in the sea. Haven't you decided she is worth it?

My head is getting ache-y, dear, so I reckon I'll stop this scribble. But I must tell you one other thing. In a stranger and more marvelous way than ever before, I know you are all Life to me. I said that I longed for the bodily you when I was ill, I said that the thought of you came to protect me against the terrible dreams. Really, you were always there. In my weakness and weariness the surface things, books, other people, even my work, seemed to grow ever dimmer and more shadowy, finally to fade out of the picture. There came one night, dear, when I knew once and for always that this world for

me was only a floating, nebulous ether surrounding you. There wasn't even a star in the void. Only you stood there and smiled. and loved me with your eyes. Then, someway, I knew that it was my life looking at me, that without you there would be only the Do you remember

nothingness.

that thing of Swinburne's

"From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with glad thanksgiving
Whatever gods there be:

That no life lives forever,
That dead men rise up never,

That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea."

Could one give thanks for the freedom?

Never that, my gaoler. But

if it

came, all thanks for the sea that is always

there, waiting.

XXII

OU tell me not to worry, but just get

You

well, and then you write me the letter I get to-night, dear! Do you think it will cheer my convalescence? Or do you really believe I don't care for you at all, only for my own happiness? You say that you were talking things over with Ridgway, your friend among the directors, and he told you that if you get into the D. C. on the "frivolous grounds" you propose and then remarry - it will certainly mean a hard fight to keep your position. And you admit that the man is an excellent gauge of the sentiment of the company.

But it's almost unbelievable! I didn't suppose there were such prejudices any more, even in New England. Those directors are not all spotless seraphs themselves, though of course they are pillars of the church. But why should a man's domestic difficulties affect his business standing, as long as everything is

done according to law? You say that the company doesn't want its chief representative figuring in the papers in any story that might make political capital, from over-speeding an automobile to divorcing his wife. Really, I suppose the reformers out of jobs could do something with your case in the rural districts, to illustrate the soullessness and high-handed arrogance of even the instruments of corporations. It had never occurred to me before in that light.

Dear, what does this mean to us? You make no comments; what must mine be? It's still rather impossible for me to grasp. You are clever and honorable and absolutely fit for your work; I can't imagine your losing it for a cause entirely unrelated. But if there's even a chance, can I ask you, or permit you, to take the risk?

Your work means so much to you! I know that just the loss of money, of your salary, would be nothing. Of course, you could earn as much and more some place else. You're not old, whatever you may say; you could walk in over here, for instance, and al

might have been divorced six times over for all the difference it would make. In fact, we seem to prefer 'em that way! Personally, I should like much to see you make good here. I love the place, and I'd love to stay in it with you, and teach you to care for it equally. You're so much too good for where you are; just this disgusting incident proves that they can't half appreciate you.

But I know your own point of view, honey. You've given yourself for eighteen years to that company, and you'd feel the time all thrown away if you left. You're like the Englishman sighing for home; you love the "Limited's "ways of doing things even when they're wrong. It would be a frightful wrench to resign. You have that splendid, un-modern fondness for work for its own sake, not simply for what you can get out of it. And, too, you've been all the more devoted to yours, because you had so little else to live for. I've always known how you felt about it; for myself, I've loved New York with the conscious reservation that I loved "Rome "—