You ask me to come back to New York. I must refuse your request. I cannot—I cannot leave my home—the only place worthy of the name that I have ever possessed! Some day, maybe, but not now—it is all too dear and consoling to breathe the same air that sustained me in my perfect happiness.
How can you say: "Don't regret." What do you mean? Regret the only joy that my poor starved soul has ever known? No atom of regret enters my grief—only a great unbounded gratitude to God, to the world, to Nature, that one perfect year has been saved from out the wreck of time!
The Black Hills,
September 20.
Two marvelous things have come to me today dear; my son took his first trembling steps alone, and a letter came to me from the man who was my husband. I am trembling with joy over the first and still dazed with lack of understanding of the second. I enclose the letter as I have long since given up trying to think clearly, and must depend upon you, to decide for me any matters of grave import. I am plunged in perplexity; advise me after reading the enclosed letter.
New York,
Sept. 16.
Dear Marianne: