I've often wanted to know, and now you speak of it I'll venture to ask.

Did you care about me when you read Keats to me last summer ?" "No." "When did you begin ?" asked Rose, smiling in spite of herself at his unflattering honesty.
"How can I tell?
Perhaps it did begin up there, though, for that talk set us writing, and the letters showed me what a beautiful soul you had.
I loved that first it was so quick to recognize good things, to use them when they came, and give them out again as unconsciously as a flower does its breath.

I longed for you to come home, and wanted you to find me altered for the better in some way as I had found you.

And when you came it was very easy to see why I needed you to love you entirely, and to tell you so.

That's all, Rose." A short story, but it was enough the voice that told it with such simple truth made the few words so eloquent, Rose felt strongly tempted to add the sequel Mac desired.