Gingerly I turned the leaves, for the paper was brittle with age. The pages were filled with writing—but no childish scrawl, this!
The penmanship was exquisite—of that type affected by ladies of a generation long past—the letters narrow and slanting, yet as clear and distinct as those on a printed page.
Carefully I tucked the book inside my coat, and with all possible haste made my way back to the village hotel.
Locking the door of my room, I opened the book, and the words upon its first page brought me to a startled attention:
“Why am I, Margaret Kingsley, the child of good, honorable parents, living now in a cave, eating raw meat, existing as a savage—my mate, a hideous creature whose very sight would disgust and appall the people I have heretofore known?
“The answer is, that I am here because I WANT to be here. Since the night when he called to me, and I went forth to be carried here in his arms, I have had many chances to escape, but I CHOOSE TO REMAIN!
“Ugly he is, beyond argument, but I love him for his giant strength, and for the tenderness he shows me—a tenderness exceeding that of a mother for her child. Within his misshapen body is a heart starved for affection—and that I am glad to give.
“Only a few words of French can he speak, and yet he quickly grasps my unspoken wishes and tries to gratify them.
“This book, the quill, the ink with which I write this, belonged to one of my pupils. The other night he brought them to me, in the bag containing her school books. How he obtained them I know not. Secretly I had longed for the materials with which to write—not that human eyes will ever see that which is written here—but because I have been accustomed to write down the things which are me—those inner thoughts and impulses which possess and dominate me.”