you!  If you and I lived in those old, old times—­you look as if you belonged to them, you know, dear—­and You were the young minister riding into the settlement on a big bay horse—­and all the girls at the window, of course!—­and I sewing away at the homespun for you!—­I think all the angels of heaven would be choiring in my heart—­and what thick, warm clothes I’d make you for winter!  Perhaps in heaven they’ll let some of the women sew for the men they love—­I wonder!

“I hear Cora’s voice from downstairs as I write.  She’s often so angry with Ray, poor girl.  It does not seem to me that she and Ray really belong to each other, though they say so often that they do.”

Richard having read thus far with a growing, vague uneasiness, looked up, frowning.  He hoped Laura had no Marie Bashkirtseff idea of publishing this manuscript.  It was too intimate, he thought, even if the names in it were to be disguised.

. . .  “Though they say so often that they do.  I think Ray is in love with her, but it can’t be like this.  What he feels must be something wholly different—­there is violence and wildness in it.  And they are bitter with each other so often—­ always `getting even’ for something.  He does care—­he is frantically `_in_ love’ with her, undoubtedly, but so insanely jealous.  I suppose all jealousy is insane.  But love is the only sanity.  How can what is insane be part of it?  I could not be jealous of You.  I owe life to you—­I have never lived till now.”

The next writing was two days later: 

. . . .  “To-day as I passed your house with Cora, I kept looking at the big front door at which you go in and out so often—­your door!  I never knew that just a door could look so beautiful!  And unconsciously I kept my eyes on it, as we walked on, turning my head and looking and looking back at it, till Cora suddenly burst out laughing, and said:  `Well, Laura!’ And I came to myself—­and found her looking at me.  It was like getting back after a journey, and for a second I was a little dazed, and Cora kept on laughing at me, and I felt myself getting red.  I made some silly excuse about thinking your house had been repainted—­and she laughed louder than ever.  I was afraid then that she understood—­I wonder if she could have?  I hope not, though I love her so much I don’t know why I would rather she didn’t know, unless it is just my feeling about it.  It is a guardian feeling—­that I must keep for myself, the music of these angels singing in my heart—­singing of You.  I hope she did not understand—­and I so fear she did.  Why should I be so afraid?” . . .