XVIII[1]
I HAVE been through so much in my young life, but it is all as nothing in comparison with what I have suffered in these last dreadful days of Father's illness.
There were hours when I was without will, but trembled with inward pain and the lips that had defiantly proclaimed "Come what may," now stammered "God pity me." My birthday was a double feast—a celebration also of Father's restoration to health. I let Father see your present, and told him how pleased you were with his portrait. Father lay upon a lounging chair; I sat next to him on the floor, his hand resting upon my head; it was thus that I spoke to him of you.
Father smiled when I told him of your enthusiastic expression of sympathy for him, and with that smile on his face, and certainly with a thought for the distant and loved friend of his child, my sick one slept.
See how near you are to me, Stella—to us. Do you believe now that it was not lack of affection which kept me silent for so long, and can you forgive that silence now?
Let me earnestly thank you now for your friendship and your love, which have added so much to my life, and let me now press you fast to my heart in thought. If I could only see you in reality, face to face and heart to heart, so that I could open my soul to you—my soul which is so full of sadness. Stella, my Stella, I should be so glad if I could
- ↑ To Mejuffrouw Zeechandelaar.
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