I have that fancy.
I am worried because I, clumsy, dull-thinking man, cannot tell what I wish to tell of a life I saw.

I am worried because I cannot make others understand it as it was.

It seems to me it would do some good in the world.

It seems to me that many a man and woman, if they could know about Grant and Jean, who really lived,--for this is but a tale of fact,--would be now more loving and better men and women because of it.
But I do not know how to tell of what I saw and what I knew.
Grant was over sixty years old at this time of which I write, and I am coming very near the end, and Jean was past forty, and the two were not much different from what they were when I first saw them together.

I suppose it was partly because I had been with them so much that I did not note the changes nature wrought in this pair of her children, but certainly they were far younger than their years.