means to her one loves in the United States. Yes, dear Sheila, I
love you, and I would tear out the heart of the world for you. I
bathe my whole being in your beauty and your charm. I hunger for
you--to stand beside you, to listen to your voice, to dip my prison
fingers into the pure cauldron of your soul and feel my own soul
expand. I wonder why it is that to-day I feel more than I ever felt
before the rare splendour of your person.

I have always admired you and loved you, always heard you calling
me, as if from some sacred corner of a perfect world. Is it that
yesterday's dissipation--yes, I was drunk yesternight, drunk in a
new way. I was drunk with the thought of you, the longing for you.
I picked a big handful of roses, and in my mind gave them into your
hands. And I thought you smiled and said:

"Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter Paradise." So I
followed you to your home there in the Virginian country. It was a
dream, all except the roses, and those I laid in front of the box
where I keep your letters and a sketch I made of you when we were
young and glad--when I was young and glad. For I am an old man,
Sheila, in all that makes men old. My step is quick still, my eye
is sharp, and my brain beats fast, but my heart is ancient. I am an
ancient of days, without hope or pleasure, save what pleasure comes
in thinking of one whom I worship, yet must ever worship from afar.

I wonder why I seem to feel you very near to-day! Perhaps it's
because 'tis Christmas Day. I am not a religious man but Christmas
is a day of memories.

Is it because of the past in Ireland? Am I only--God, am I only to