But this is silly of me, because I know he has to go and he
will write often and come to me often. But, still, it is so
lonesome. I didn't cry when he left me because I wanted him
to remember me smiling in the way he liked best, but I have
been crying ever since and I can't stop, no matter how hard I
try. We have had such a beautiful fortnight. Every day
seemed dearer and happier than the last, and now it is ended
and I feel as if it could never be the same again. Oh, I am
very foolish--but I love him so dearly and if I were to lose
his love I know I would die.
August 17.
I think my heart is dead. But no, it can't be, for it aches
too much.
Paul's mother came here to see me to-day. She was not angry
or disagreeable. I wouldn't have been so frightened of her
if she had been. As it was, I felt that I couldn't say a
word. She is very beautiful and stately and wonderful, with
a low, cold voice and proud, dark eyes. Her face is like
Paul's but without the loveableness of his.
She talked to me for a long time and she said terrible
things--terrible, because I knew they were all true. I
seemed to see everything through her eyes. She said that
Paul was infatuated with my youth and beauty but that it
would not last and what else I to give him? She said Paul
must marry a woman of his own class, who could do honor to
his fame and position.
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