He got up, and pressed the light on. Pinned to the cover of his
dressing-table was a square envelope, with the words, "For you, dear,"
written in pencil upon it. But the message inside was in ink, a
little smudged here and there.
I have been out to the mail-box, darling, with a letter I've written
to Eugene, and he'll have it in the morning. It would be unfair not
to let him know at once, and my decision could not change if I waited.
It would always be the same. I think it, is a little better for me to
write to you, like this, instead of waiting till you wake up and then
telling you, because I'm foolish and might cry again, and I took a vow
once, long ago, that you should never see me cry. Not that I'll feel
like crying when we talk things over tomorrow. I'll be "all right and
fine" (as you say so often) by that time--don't fear. I think what
makes me most ready to cry now is the thought of the terrible
suffering in your poor face, and the unhappy knowledge that it is I,
your mother who put it there. It shall never come again! I love you
better than anything and everything else on earth.
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