the stars or the sea. It was at one of those times that she wrote the poem beginning:
The age-old sob of the sea—
But he loves me so! she would think. He will be happy, and I will have my work, and, after all, life isn't so terribly long, and then comes peace. But when it was Curtis she thought of, she wrote to Elliott. The more glowing her thoughts of the one, the more intense her letters to the other. It was unfortunate that just at this time Elliott had sprained his right wrist so that he could only write a few jerky and tremulous lines with his left hand, or dictate restrainedly to Gobby.
Oh, My Heart's Dearest! [she wrote to Elliott, with a hand that shook as she thought of Curtis, who had arrived that day]
How I miss—miss you! When will the Wings stir in my heart again? I'm like a
