... and there is no hour in which I do not think of you. The thought of you is like a prayer in my heart. You have touched the best in me. I rebel against the fate that keeps me from you. Sometimes it becomes intolerable—I want you so much,now—just to see your face, to look into your eyes, to touch your hand. You are the flower of all the world, I think, and quick upon that comes a sense that you have greatness in you; that you are stronger than I am—possess a truer and broader sense of the meaning of life....
... and there is no hour in which I do not think of you. The thought of you is like a prayer in my heart. You have touched the best in me. I rebel against the fate that keeps me from you. Sometimes it becomes intolerable—I want you so much,now—just to see your face, to look into your eyes, to touch your hand. You are the flower of all the world, I think, and quick upon that comes a sense that you have greatness in you; that you are stronger than I am—possess a truer and broader sense of the meaning of life....
Her deep sigh as she finished became a sob and she laid her head upon her arms and the tears came. It was possible that he had written just such letters to the woman who was still his wife; that once he had found in her this same exaltation.
But these thoughts she fought and conquered. As she moved slowly about her room with its dingy old-fashioned furniture, its odds and ends of memorabilia—her high school diploma, framed; a University pennanthung over the mahogany bed,—she slipped back into her youth and her heart went out to Trenton with a child-like faith and confidence. The remembrance of him as he had held her and kissed her; his tenderness, the wistfulness with which he regarded her at times, his fine considerateness, the utter lack of anything common or coarse in him—these memories wrought peace in her heart.
Ready for bed, she huddled inside the window draperies before opening her window, gazing up at the stars. The same bright orbs shone over him, wherever he was. Perhaps at that very moment, he, in the manner of lovers from time immemorial, was invoking their council as he thought of her.
“I love you! I love you, dear!” she whispered and repeated the words, finding in them strength and solace.
She unlocked the door and got into bed just as her mother entered.
“Are you all right, Grace?” Mrs. Durland asked. She stooped and picked up Grace’s party slippers from the middle of the floor and put them away in the closet.
“Yes, I’m fine, mother,” Grace answered. “Please don’t bother about my things. I’ll straighten up in the morning.”
“All right, dear,” said Mrs. Durland. “I’ll put your dress on a hanger in the sewing room and press the skirt out tomorrow. It’s mussed a little, I noticed.”
With the gown over her arm she walked to the bed.
“Are you happy, dear?” she asked, laying her hand for a moment on the girl’s forehead.
“Yes, mother. Thank you so much for coming in!”
With an access of emotion she sat up and flung her arms about her mother’s neck and kissed her.
“Youarehappy, Grace?” Mrs. Durland repeated solicitously.
“Yes, mother; very happy.”