Perhaps he knows it already,"
Hilda kept thinking as she undressed.
"Perhaps he will be at the dock. No, scarcely
that; but I may meet him in the street even
before he comes to see me." Marie placed the
tea-table by the fire and brought Hilda her letters.
She looked them over, and started as she came
to one in a handwriting that she did not often see;
Alexander had written to her only twice before,
and he did not allow her to write to him at all.
"Thank you, Marie. You may go now."
Hilda sat down by the table with the
letter in her hand, still unopened. She looked
at it intently, turned it over, and felt its
thickness with her fingers. She believed that
she sometimes had a kind of second-sight
about letters, and could tell before she read
them whether they brought good or evil tidings.
She put this one down on the table in front
of her while she poured her tea. At last,
with a little shiver of expectancy,
she tore open the envelope and read:--
Boston, February--
MY DEAR HILDA:--
It is after twelve o'clock. Every one else
is in bed and I am sitting alone in my study.
I have been happier in this room than anywhere
else in the world. Happiness like that makes
one insolent. I used to think these four walls
could stand against anything. And now I
scarcely know myself here. Now I know
that no one can build his security upon the
nobleness of another person. Two people,
when they love each other, grow alike in their
tastes and habits and pride, but their moral
natures (whatever we may mean by that
canting expression) are never welded.
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