I want some one not wise or learned,
except learned and wise in such fashion as you are, to sit here beside
me, and look into the fire with me, and listen to the wind with me, and
talk to me or be silent with me. If my book had been accepted, and all
the world were wagging their tongues about it, I should want that unwise,
unlearned somebody. That friend of mine over the water, sitting in his
lonely bungalow tonight studying Hindoostanee wants somebody, too. Why
did you not go with him, Prudence? Shall you never go with any one; shall
you and I, so near to each other, with so much to keep us together, go
always uncomforted. But you _are_ comforted. You loved Helen, you love
Linnet and Marjorie and a host of others; you do not need me to bid you
be brave. You are a brave woman. I am not a brave man. I am not brave
to-night, with that four-times-rejected manuscript within reach of my
hand. Shall I publish it myself? I want some one to think well enough of
it to take the risk.
"Prudence, I have asked God for something, but he gives me an answer that
I cannot understand. Write to me and tell me how that is.
"Yours to-day and to-morrow."
"J. H."
* * * * *
"_New York, Dec_. 20, 18--.
"MY DEAR JOHN:
"I have time but for one word to-night, and even that cannot be at
length. Linnet and I are just in from a lecture on Miss Mitford! There
were tears running down over my heart all the time that I was listening.
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