The age-herald., 1901-03-24

where we both have lived all these years.
 There has been no occasion to write-I
 fear there Is none now.
 As you see. I have not addressed this
 letter, nor will I sign it. Neither is nec- essary. You will know who is the sender, and l have always had peculiar horror of any letter of mine being read by a stranger. Wonen are careless with let ters, and should this fall into a strang- CTS hand your name will not be men tioned and none will ever know from
 what heart it flowed or what heart it hoped to reach. No, I will not say that l really have no hope.
 When left you that night I went to my room where the fire had dwindled to few smouldering coals. I sat before 1t and trying to stir 1t Into blaze I thought how your loving sympathy and kindness had stirred the dying embers of my heart. How 1t had kindled blaze which no power can ever quench-not even you. I need not tell you how bitter such thoughts were and that l loathed myself when l thought how I had repaid all your kindness to me during these years. I thought how you had been the one joy of my life-the one power to make me better than I was. I thought how l had lost all this, without hope of ever regaining it, by one piece of sublime folly-if folly can ever be sublime.
 You will never know what it has been to me-the thought that 1 had a place in your friendship and the knowledge that l could always count on your sympathy have never fully told you-alasi this is one of the many things l have left un- done. Possibly you may have guessed 1t, but the full power of your soul and per sonality over me you will never know. All my life I have been lonely. You were one of the few friends I have ever had. There were none like you-there never will be another, and to think that have forever lost all this-all through my own follyl I fear I was ever fool.
 Pardon me if I grow prosaic or write Of myself, for 1 am only a man, and therefore selfish. With it all you see I do not ask your forgiveness I know 1t would be useless, so even in that there is no virtue l dare not write much of your self for fear my judgment and self-con- trol will be swept away, Would that I could pour my whole heart at your feet could wash out in tears any transgres- sion-could kneel at your feet and kiss the hem of your garment.
 Had l done this then there might yet have been hope of your forgiveness But now I know it is too late. Should you relent so far as to take pity on me would only despise myself the more Bet ter a thousand times your anger than a glance of pity with nothing else.
 When the mind is racked with suffering there sometimes comes a lull when mem ory reverts to olden times and peaceful scenes with an almost childish delight. was just thinking of the day I first saw you. l remember the dress you wore. The fashions have changed now, but I have never seen a dress which pleased me as well. l think there has been a decadence in styles ever since. On that day fashions were at their zenith. That was the one moment In all time when nature and art were hand in hand striv- ing for perfection. And yet they made but one perfect woman, I may speak of your beauty, for it is mine and the worlds as much as yours I may speak, but dare I? Have l the power to speak of it? Will l not mar a divine picture by attempting a human framework?
 And yet you are so lovely. Your eyes, your face, your hair are beautiful beyond words! You are a dream of all that wo- man should be, and when beauty passes away what Is left in the world? But to those who know you your beauty is but 9 second thought. It Is the heart which loves and is loved It is the mind which feels and is sought after, and in these you are no less endowed You are too good-too beautiful. Nature never meant that one being should be so blessed And this it is which has ruined me Constant looking at you has blinded me at last, and the blind must ever fall
 I am going away, as cannot bear you should see me again. It Is for your sake, too-the last small consideration I can show you. There is nothing l would not do for you-nothing. such is circum- stances, that I can do for you. To hold a cape, to pick up a handkerchief, such are the services the nineteenth century has lift for man to render q woman. I would do TT ore if l had my choice Had 1 lived in happier age or In times which peace had not bcnumed there still might be something left for me to do. And shall hesitate moment at such a little thing as saving vnu my F eseTco2 Tn" thought of all I forego In doing this-of never a sight of you, of lifelong exile is some poor consolation for such q little service.
 Whatever may happen in the future l cannot say that fate has been unfair to me. The past few years have held for me all that l could expect. Like any other dog, I can thankfully say I have had my day An, those years, how short, how sweet they were. Common gratitude