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I write, fascinated it seems by the movements of my pen. I am glad that you are not here to despise her.
    But what am I to make of her?

    Rereading this letter, I see there was one point about my dream that I neglected to mention. I sleep in my living room, as you may have gathered. Nights can be cool here at this season, and the living room has a fireplace. I cook over the fire there and sleep in front of it, waking when I am cold to put more wood on.
    The window to which Winkle led me in my dream was in the living room; but when I looked through it, I was seeing the lawn behind the house. None of the living-room windows offers a view of the backyard.
    Possibly I should say they do not normally show it.
    There is something about the windows in this house that perturbs me, George. When I am intent upon something else and see a window from the corner of my eye, it seems to me--sometimes--that what I see through it is quite different. Once I saw a pale face; but when I looked directly at it, it was the moon. Perhaps I am too much alone.
    I went out this morning after breakfast. Before I left, I asked Winkle, "Will you protect the place in my absence?"
    It seemed to me that she shook her head, so I said, "In that case, will you hide from intruders?" I looked away for a moment; when I looked back, she was gone. I have not seen her since.

    If I had closed my letter above, it would have been better, perhaps. But what would I do now? My eye is swollen . . . almost shut, but I am intoo much pain to sleep. I shall tell you about it. It is best, I am sure, if I have some occupation.
    It would be better still if I had food.
    Well, then. About midmorning I hiked into town. It is only too likely that my allowance, when it comes, will come to the post-office box I rented when I realized that Mutazz had tried to forge my signature to my allowance check. I have written to Mother's attorneys and provided them with the address of this house, but letters can be slow and attorneys even slower. It is too soon, but it seems it must come too soon or I shall starve. Which would not trouble you.
    A man in the post office stopped me and asked to see my ring. I did not recognize him at first, and said simply that both the rings I wore were mine.
    "Oh, I know that! Are there two? The gold ring with the large stone."
    "And why do you want to see it?"
    He smiled. "You don't remember me, do you? You brought in a ring--costume jewelry--for me to look at yesterday. I'd like to see the one you're wearing now."
    I remembered him then and held up my left hand.
    He bent over it. "I won't ask you to take it off."
    "I wouldn't," I said.
    "That's a fire opal, I believe, the best I've ever seen. What did you pay for it?"
    "I'm sorry, but I don't have time for this." I went to my box. No check. I had not really expected one, but not getting one did nothing to improve my mood. When I turned around, the jeweler was still there. I went past him without a word.
    The truth, George, is that I was terribly tempted to sell him Doris's husband's wedding ring. It is plain gold, but wide, and large enough to be a little loose on my finger. I would think that even the pawn shop would give me a hundred dollars for it.
    I am very glad now that I did not. Both sides of my face are swollen, and the pain on the left side is really quite bad; but I think that if I had sold or pawned that ring I might very well be dead.
    What I did instead was return here and go back up into the attic in the hope of finding something I might use or pawn.
    There is a good deal of old, heavy, black furniture up there, filthy with dust. Much of it I could have used, and still more of it might have fetched a decent price from an antique dealer.
    Which did me no good whatsoever, since I could not possibly have gotten any of those old beds, dressers, and chairs down the trapdoor. There must surely be another entrance, but I searched for it in vain.
    As daylight faded in the dormer windows, it occurred to me