“June twenty-first.

[Sidenote:  The Hand Stayed]

“It is true that the path she took is open to me also.  I have thought of it many times.  I am not afraid to follow where she has led, even into the depths of hell.  I have had for several days a vial of the crushed poppies, and the bitter odour, even now, fills my room.  Only one thought stays my hand—­my little son.

“Should I follow, he must inevitably come to believe that his father was a coward—­that he was afraid of life, which is the most craven fear of all.  He will see that I have given to him something that I could not bear myself, and will despise me, as people despise a man who shirks his burden and shifts it to the shoulders of one weaker than he.

“When temptation assails him, he will remember that his father yielded.  When life looms dark before him and among the fearful shadows there is no hint of light, he will recall that his father was too much of a coward to go into those same shadows, carrying his own light.

“And if his heart is ever filled with an awful agony that requires all his strength to meet it, he will remember that his father failed.  I could not rest in my grave if my son, living, should despise me, even though my narrow house was in the same darkness that hides Her.”

“July tenth.  Dawn.

[Sidenote:  Punishment]

“This, then, is my punishment.  Because for one hour my self-control deserted me, when my man’s blood had been crying out for three years for the touch of her—­because for one little hour my hungry arms held her close to my aching heart, there is no peace.  Nowhere in earth nor in heaven nor in hell is there one moment’s forgetfulness.  Nowhere in all God’s illimitable universe is there pardon and surcease of pain.

“The blind man comes to me and talks of her.  He asks me piteously, ‘Why?’ He calls me his friend.  He says that she often spoke of me; that they were glad to have me in their house.  He asks me if she ever said one word that would give a reason.  Was she unhappy?  Was it because he was blind and the little yellow-haired baby with her mother’s blue eyes was born lame?  I can only say ‘No,’ and beg him not to talk of it—­not even to think of it.”

“July twentieth.  Night.

“The beauty of the world at midsummer only makes my loneliness more keen.  The butterflies flit through the meadows like wandering souls of last year’s flowers that died and were buried by the snow.  The harvest moon, red-gold and wonderful, will rise slowly up out of the sea.  The path of light will lie on the still waters and widen into a vast arc at the line of the shore.  Cobwebs will come among the stubble when the harvest is gathered in and on them will lie dewdrops that the moon will make into pearls.

[Sidenote:  Cycle of the Seasons]

“The gorgeous colouring of Autumn will transfigure the hills with glory, and fill the far silences with misty amethyst and gold.  The year-long sleep will come with the first snow, and the stars burn blue and cold in the frosty night.  April bugles will wake the violets and anemones, the dead leaves of Autumn will be starred with springtime bloom, May will dance through the world with lilacs and apple blossoms, and I shall be alone.