It is a long, long journey back to our childhood--sometimes, even
though one may be only twenty-eight.

I looked down at the last page of the manuscript. It was written on
the top sheet of a still thick pad of paper, and my fingers fairly
tingled suddenly, to go on and cover those unused white sheets--tell
what happened next--tell the rest of the story; not for the sake of
the story--but for my sake. It might help me. It might make things
clearer. It might help to justify myself in my own eyes. Not that I
have any doubts, of course (about leaving Jerry, I mean), but that
when I saw it in black and white I could be even more convinced that I
was doing what was best for him and best for me.

So I brought the manuscript down to my own room, and this evening I
have commenced to write. I can't finish it to-night, of course. But I
have to-morrow, and still to-morrow. (I have so many to-morrows now!
And what do they all amount to?) And so I'll just keep writing, as I
have time, till I bring it to the end.

I'm sorry that it must be so sad and sorry an end. But there's no
other way, of course. There can be but one ending, as I can see. I'm
sorry. Mother'll be sorry, too. She doesn't know yet. I hate to tell
her. Nobody knows--not even Jerry himself--yet. They all think I'm
just making a visit to Mother--and I am--till I write that letter to
Jerry. And then--

I believe now that I'll wait till I've finished writing this. I'll
feel better then. My mind will be clearer. I'll know more what to say.
Just the effort of writing it down--