I felt it. It is an old letter, I think. And some one has been
angry with it. See, it is all crumpled. But it is a real love letter.
All the love is there yet. When I took it in my hands it all came out
to me, sweet and strong. Like--like the scent of something keen,
fragrant, on a swift wind. I can't explain it!"
"You explain it very beautifully," gravely. "I can quite understand that
love might be like that."
"Can you?" with a pleased smile. "And can you understand how I feel it?
I can feel things in people, too. Love and hate and envy and all kinds
of things. I never say so. I used to, but people did not like it. They
always looked queer, or got angry. They seemed to think I had no right
to see inside of them. So I soon pretended not to see anything. But a
letter doesn't mind. This one," swinging the crumpled paper swiftly
close to his face, "is glad I found it. Can't you feel it yourself?"
Callandar shook his head. "I am far too dull and commonplace for that!"
He smiled. "But I have no doubt it is all there, just as you say.
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