"It will," I said, "be time enough to
resolve, when I know concerning what!" This, I now see, was juggling; for
the question was whether I should be open with my uncle or not. "It might
be," I said to myself, "that, the moment I knew the contents of the
paper, I should reproach myself that I had not read it at once!" I sat
down on a bush of heather, and unfolded it. This is what I found, written
with a pencil:--
"I am the man to whom you talked so kindly over your garden wall
yesterday. I fear you may think me presuming and impertinent. Presuming I
may be, but impertinent, surely not! If I were, would not my heart tell
me so, seeing it is all on your side?
"My name is John Day; I do not yet know yours. I have not dared to
inquire after it, lest I should hear of some impassable gulf between us.
The fear of such a gulf haunts me. I can think of nothing but the face I
saw over the wall through the clusters of lilac: the wall seems to keep
rising and rising, as if it would hide you for ever.
"Is it wrong to think thus of you without your leave? If one may not love
the loveliest, then is the world but a fly-trap hung in the great heaven,
to catch and ruin souls!
"If I am writing nonsense--I cannot tell whether I am or not--it is
because my wits wander with my eyes to gaze at you through the leaves of
the wild white rose under which you are asleep.
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