Give my love to my son-in-law. I will answer his letter shortly. Tell Peter I've a present for him--we've a guide up here who is a genius with a pen-knife and a scrap of wood.
And inform Sarah that the last snap-shot of her you sent me is a marvel! She's entirely too rejuvenated for Green Hill.
To you, my child, the tenderest affection of your devoted
I think, perhaps, that the hardest task I had, during the lazy days in Cuba, was writing to Father. There were times when the irony of the situation moved me to something very like laughter. A bitter form of mirth, and one I never thought to know. As carefully as any novelist, I built up my little fictionary happiness, evolved my plot, drew my characters, retaining enough of truth, and committing seven times seven sins of omission. It seemed to me, at times, that it was not I who wrote, but another Mavis, a happy Mavis, living in a tropical dream, companioned and at peace,--the Mavis I might have been--if--
What tears my guardian angel must have shed! What blotted pages must have soiled the ledger!
I wondered very often, if lies we tell to spare others are counted lies in the heavenly books. After all, surely we are not judged by earthly standards, there must be a larger vision and a more tolerant viewpoint. And sometimes, where the truth ended and where falsehood began, seemed hidden from me: times when the dream seemed real and reality a dream--
Sometimes I think it would be sweet, To go out, as a candle in the wind, Whose little flame flares up, in brilliance fleet, To light the secret corners of the mind, And calls to being for a heart-beat's space, Long-buried loves and dreams illuminate; The household furniture of that small place Where Life has dwelt; old, half-forgotten hate, Young, brave belief: dim-colored hopes, and fears, The driftwood memories: grey ghosts of pain, Which haunt us down the long, relentless years, All salient, living, vivid, once again, In that last, eager, leaping ray of light, Which snuffs out in the passing of a breath From windows open to the healing Night, Swift-blown from the quiet Wind of Death.... A throbbing moment, wherein all things cease; A sudden plunging into kindly gloom; A blessed darkness and a perfect peace; And utter silence in an empty Room.