"You must take a letter from me at all events," said Martin, and sitting at my desk he began to write one.
It is amazing to me now when I come to think of it that I could have been so confident of myself and so indifferent to consequences. But I was thinking of one thing only—that Martin must go on his great errand, finish his great work and win his great reward, without making any sacrifice for me.
After a few minutes he rose from the desk and handed me his letter.
"Here it is," he said. "If the worst comes to the worst you may find it of some use some day."
I took it and doubled it and continued to hold it in my hand.
"Aren't you going to look at it!" he said.
"No."
"Not even to see whom it is written to?"
"That is unnecessary."
I thought I knew it was written to my husband or my father, and it did not matter to me which, for I had determined not to use it.