me after you was gone t' bed. 'Ann dear,' she says, 'don't let him have
it till half after ten t' morrer,' she says. An' it's nearly eleven
now--so there's y'r letter!"

"But," said Ravenslee, "why on earth--"

"P'raps th' letter'll tell you, Mr. Geoffrey; s'pose you read it while I
clear away your breakfast things!"

Hereupon Ravenslee opened the letter and read these words:

My dear,

It would be my joy to trust myself to you utterly, to go with you to the
world's end if you would have it so. Only I'm afraid that I am not quite
what you would have me. I'm afraid that I might sometimes do things that
would remind you that I had been only a scrubwoman. I'm afraid that some
day you might regret. Were I to answer you now, I should answer you
selfishly--so, please, you must give me time to think, for both our
sakes. Love has never come near me before, and now I am a little afraid,
for love is not little and tender and babyish, but great and strong and
very fierce and masterful--that is why I am afraid of it. So I must go
away from you, from the sound of your voice, the touch of your hand--to
think it all out. My work will take me to Englewood to-morrow, and I want
you to wait for your answer until I come back, for then I shall have
decided one way or the other. But in Englewood the memory of your words
will be with me still--oh, did you mean all, quite all you said, and did
you say quite all you meant to say--did you? Did you? For indeed it has
seemed to me that if you really meant all you said you might have said a
little more--just a little more. This is a dreadfully long letter and