in any way. And what he did to me was a thing he could not help.
"And you are like him, Hildegarde. You look like him and have certain tricks of manner. You have his gaiety, his almost faun-like quality of enjoyment. But I like to think that you are my child in many ways. You have, I am sure, my courage—for it took courage to do the thing I have done—to put from me the love that made my life.
"So, I have said, I want you to go to him and tell him who you are. His wife died several years ago. I could never have asked anything of him for myself, but for you I can ask anything. You may tell him that. I can not bear to think of your future, if you stay here with Catherine and Olivia. They are fine women. You are too much of a child to know that their apparent hardness and harshness is on the surface. But they can never give you what I want you to have. And your father can give it to you if he will. I want him to give, and I want you to take. I have no bitterness in my thought of him. He was always kind, and I loved him. I love him still."
It was on this high note that the letter ended. As she finished, Hildegarde found herself trembling. In the few moments since Aunt Catherine had left her, the world had changed. Out of that dark, immeasurable space her mother's voice had spoken. Yet it was not the rapturous voice of one who would go soaring through eternity with a fore-ordained mate. Out there in that vast space her mother was lonely—a wandering spirit, seeking always the love which has been denied.
