That quite won me, Mina, for it was brave and sweet of him, and noble too, to a rival, wasn’t it?  And he so sad, so I leant over and kissed him.

He stood up with my two hands in his, and as he looked down into my face, I am afraid I was blushing very much, he said, “Little girl, I hold your hand, and you’ve kissed me, and if these things don’t make us friends nothing ever will.  Thank you for your sweet honesty to me, and goodbye.”

He wrung my hand, and taking up his hat, went straight out of the room without looking back, without a tear or a quiver or a pause, and I am crying like a baby.

Oh, why must a man like that be made unhappy when there are lots of girls about who would worship the very ground he trod on?  I know I would if I were free, only I don’t want to be free.  My dear, this quite upset me, and I feel I cannot write of happiness just at once, after telling you of it, and I don’t wish to tell of the number Three until it can be all happy.  Ever your loving . . .

Lucy

P.S.—­Oh, about number Three, I needn’t tell you of number Three, need I?  Besides, it was all so confused.  It seemed only a moment from his coming into the room till both his arms were round me, and he was kissing me.  I am very, very happy, and I don’t know what I have done to deserve it.  I must only try in the future to show that I am not ungrateful to God for all His goodness to me in sending to me such a lover, such a husband, and such a friend.

Goodbye.

DR. SEWARD’S DIARY (Kept in phonograph)

25 May.—­Ebb tide in appetite today.  Cannot eat, cannot rest, so diary instead.  Since my rebuff of yesterday I have a sort of empty feeling.  Nothing in the world seems of sufficient importance to be worth the doing.  As I knew that the only cure for this sort of thing was work, I went amongst the patients.  I picked out one who has afforded me a study of much interest.  He is so quaint that I am determined to understand him as well as I can.  Today I seemed to get nearer than ever before to the heart of his mystery.

I questioned him more fully than I had ever done, with a view to making myself master of the facts of his hallucination.  In my manner of doing it there was, I now see, something of cruelty.  I seemed to wish to keep him to the point of his madness, a thing which I avoid with the patients as I would the mouth of hell.

(Mem., Under what circumstances would I not avoid the pit of hell?) Omnia Romae venalia sunt.  Hell has its price!  If there be anything behind this instinct it will be valuable to trace it afterwards accurately, so I had better commence to do so, therefore . . .