Believe me, you will hate me then.
And what have you to do, Hilda, with this ugly story?
Nothing at all.
The little boy drank of the prettiest brook in the forest and he became a stag.

I write all this because I can never tell it to you, and because it seems as if I could not keep silent any longer.

And because I suffer, Hilda.

If any one I loved suffered like this, I'd want to know it.

Help me, Hilda! B.A..