“It’s—private. The boy was right. My heart cannot take it. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. "You cannot understand me, Madam; and it is well you cannot. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. " But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little aside, and folded his arms, muttering, "This whim will soon be over. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman.
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