And now I near the end of my story. It seems to me that there was more I planned to say, but my old age is catching up with me, and the threads of my story have slipped away. There was more time spent in Ithilien and Gondor, during which time Éomer and I fell deeply, hopelessly, and irrevocably in love. Still, I knew that I must return to my own country, no matter what ties held me to his. So it was that I mounted my horse and rode back to Spruce Havens, and arrived one blustery cold night and spent the next year explaining to all and sundry where I had been.
The dreams that I had dreamed were based in reality. A battle had been fought on our very farm, and our house had been used as a hospital. Unfortunately, my mother and sister contracted a fever while tending the wounded and died soon after. My father and brothers were killed in battle, and since there was no one to claim the farm, myself being assumed dead, a kind soldier by the name of Tompkins, who had lost a leg in the battle, brought his widowed mother to live with him at Spruce Havens. When I made my surprise return in the night, Mr. Tompkins kindly offered to turn the farm back over to me, but I was in no condition to run a farm. So he made me a different offer, and offer of marriage.
I do not regret anything about my life. Ephraim was a wonderful husband to me for 50 years. Even if he was not my first love, I grew to love him just as much. Now I know that my story seems amazing and far-fetched. Some people have theorized that I merely dreamed it all in the height of a fever, but how then do they explain that I was missing, a fact acknowledged by all our neighbors? I know that this whole journal may seem like the ramblings of a demented old woman, and that is why, as I write, I have decided not to share this with my children and grandchildren after all. Instead, I believe that I will hide it, and let my story remain my secret. I loved Ephraim, but now, as the shadows creep over the house, I look out my window over a field, and I seem to see a bright golden head, proudly lifted, and a straight and lean body poised over the back of a well-bred horse. Here in the twilight of my life, it is Éomer, the love of my youth who comes to take me home.
And so ends the diary. I do not know, but I can't help but hope that Helen died happily in her room, dreaming of her first love.