“But all this was only dreams.  You were not ill, nor bitten by a snake, and at last I did not even know where you were.  And then I wanted to die, for I felt so weak.  And I waited for it day after day and month after month—­I had already written to say good-bye to you.  But death did not come—­I had to go on living.

“I have been so ill, Olof—­it is my heart.  Perhaps I am too sensitive; they called me a dreamer when I was a child.  And even now that I am older they have said the same.  But how could I ever forget you, and the hours that were the confession and communion of my whole life?  How could I forget those evenings when I sat at your feet and looked into your eyes?  Olof, I can feel it all still, and tremble at the thought of it.

“You must forgive me all this.  It feels easier now that I have spoken to you and told you about it all—­how I still feel, grateful to you for all you gave me then.  I was very childish and poor then, and had nothing to give you in return—­now, afterwards, I could perhaps have given you something too.  I should have been so happy if we could have been together always; earth would have been like heaven, and none but angels everywhere.  And even now I can be so happy, though I only have you in secret.  Secretly I say good-night to you, and kiss you, and no one knows that you rest every night in my arms.  And, do you know, Olof, there is one thing that is so strange, I hardly know what it means.  Now, just lately, I have felt sometimes that you were really here, your living self, sitting beside me and whispering that I was yours, your love, your friend.  And it makes me so happy—­but I always cry afterwards.

“There was one thing more—­but I can’t think what it was.  Something about ... yes, now I remember.  The greatest and loveliest of all, that I asked you for Shall I tell you?  The miracle has happened, though no one knows about it.  You gave it me after all, that spring when I was so ill.  And I could not live without it.  He is two years old now—­oh, if you could only see him!  His eyes and his voice—­they are just your very own.  Do not be anxious about him.  I will be so careful, and see that he grows up a fine man.  I have sewed every stitch of his clothes myself, and he looks like a prince—­there never was such a child.  We are always together, and talking of you.  I am sorry for mother sometimes; she looks so strangely at me, and says I go about talking to myself—­but how could she know of my prince and his father, and why I talk?  Talking to myself, she says.  But I am talking to the child all the time.

“There, and what more was I going to say?  I can’t remember now.  I feel so much better now I have told you all about it.  And now the summer is coming—­I always feel happier then.  It was raining before, but now the sun has come out and the birds are singing.  And so good-bye, my dearest, my sunshine, my summer.—­Your own CLEMATIS.

“Do not write to me—­I am better as I am.  I know you have not forgotten me, that you could not forget ... and that is all I ask.”