green and not expensif please tell him, because he does not like expensif presents (Miss Naylor says the bird has an inquiring eye—­it is a parrat); for you, a little brooch of turquoise because I like them best; for Dr. Edmund a machine to weigh medicines in because he said he could not get a good one in Botzen; this is a very good one, the shopman told me so, and is the most expensif of all the presents—­so that is all my money, except two gulden.  If Papa shall give me some more, I shall buy for Miss Naylor a parasol, because it is useful and the handle of hers is ‘wobbley’ (that is one of Dr. Edmund’s words and I like it).

“Good-bye for this time.  Greta sends you her kiss.

“P.  S.—­Miss Naylor has read all this letter (except about the parasol) and there are several things she did not want me to put, so I have copied it without the things, but at the last I have kept that copy myself, so that is why this is smudgy and several words are not spelt well, but all the things are here.”

Christian read, smiling, but to finish it was like dropping a talisman, and her face clouded.  A sudden draught blew her hair about, and from within, Mr. Treffry’s cough mingled with the soughing of the wind; the sky was fast blackening.  She went indoors, took a pen and began to write: 

“My friend,—­Why haven’t you written to me?  It is so, long to wait.  Uncle says you are in Italy—­it is dreadful not to know for certain.  I feel you would have written if you could; and I can’t help thinking of all the things that may have happened.  I am unhappy.  Uncle Nic is ill; he will not confess it, that is his way; but he is very ill.  Though perhaps you will never see this, I must write down all my thoughts.  Sometimes I feel that I am brutal to be always thinking about you, scheming how to be with you again, when he is lying there so ill.  How good he has always been to me; it is terrible that love should pull one apart so.  Surely love should be beautiful, and peaceful, instead of filling me with bitter, wicked thoughts.  I love you—­and I love him; I feel as if I were torn in two.  Why should it be so?  Why should the beginning of one life mean the ending of another, one love the destruction of another?  I don’t understand.  The same spirit makes me love you and him, the same sympathy, the same trust—­yet it sometimes seems as if I were a criminal in loving you.  You know what he thinks—­he is too honest not to have shown you.  He has talked to me; he likes you in a way, but you are a foreigner—­he says-your life is not my life.  ’He is not the man for you!’ Those were his words.  And now he doesn’t talk to me, but when I am in the room he looks at me—­that’s worse—­a thousand times; when he talks it rouses me to fight—­when it’s his eyes only, I’m a coward at once; I feel I would do anything, anything, only not to hurt him.  Why can’t he see?  Is it because he’s old and we are young?  He may consent, but he will never, never see; it will always hurt him.