By paths of her own, much overgrown for
want of recent usage, she passed through the cultivated fields,
left the roadway, and began to climb. When she reached the
stream flowing down the rugged hillside, she stopped to rest for
a while, and her mind was in a tumult. In one minute she was
seeing the bitterly disappointed face of a lonely, sensitive man
whose first wound had been reopened by the making of another
possibly quite as deep; and at the next her heart was throbbing
because Linda had succeeded in transferring the living Peter to
paper.
The time had come when Marian felt that she would know the
personality embodied in the letters she had been receiving; and
in the past few days her mind had been fixing tenaciously upon
Peter
Morrison. And the feeling concerning which she had written Linda
had taken possession of her. Wealth did not matter; position did
not matter. Losing the love of a good man did not matter But the
mind and the heart and the personality behind the letters she had
been receiving did matter. She thought long and seriously When
at last she arose she had arrived at the conclusion that she had
done the right thing, no matter whether the wonderful letters she
had received went on and offered her love or not, no matter about
anything. She must merely live and do the best she could, until
the writer of those letters chose to disclose himself and say
what purpose he had in mind when he wrote them.
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