of Auckland to-morrow for a week, and I wish to come home at the end of that time. Will you please be gone by then? You see I am turning you out, turning you out because you won’t go of your own accord. And I know why you won’t go. It is very wonderful of you, but you must go now, please. And I am a coward. I cannot stand in my garden and see you go out of it. So you must go before I come back.
“I have had a long talk with your father. He understands my action thoroughly. He will ask you no questions. The war will blanket your going away. So many are going now. I have left money with him for you, and later when you need more you shall have it. Of course, dear, I’m not regarding this as the end of everything. Please understand that. It is merely a change. Of course we shall write to each other. I want to hear from you before you leave Auckland. But please, please, do not think it necessary to leave any letter for me in the house. Please, don’t, Val ———
“Dear old girl, I write all this because I am sure you will understand. Ever since I met you I have been, and for the rest of my life I shall be yours. And for a time at least you have been mine, perhaps as much as you will ever be anybody’s. I’m not afraid that you will forget me. Perhaps you will remember too well.
“I’m rambling on—it is hard to end this.
“I’m not going to say good-bye.
“Just good-night—dear Valerie. Dane.
“P. S. Please don’t turn me into a ghost. I should be the most uneasy spirit you have ever known. But if you do, let me have a cemetery all to myself. I insist on it. I will not be put with the relatives.”
