folks will smile the
vacuous smile of ignorant criticism, and say, "O, yes, we all knew it
before!" Then perhaps your Virginia will come, and you may die in each
other's arms. For you haven't the fortunate palm, my boy; you haven't
the look of luck. They that make us have ordained you to grief, and I
would for forty shillings that your slaughter came not through me. I
will go to town. You shall send me your manuscripts, I will find a
publisher, and we will write each other letters--so friendly, so
friendly--and when you die with Virginia I will come to the woods and
sit by your grave, and sing you little songs in remembrance of the love
that was not to be mine. So fare you well; and I wish you only
forgetfulness.

[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to Zoe Montrose_]

Farewell! I stop in my packing to laugh. I've begun to sing the word,
to whistle little tunes to its rhythm. Aye, mistress, we will fare
well, but we fare together! It has just occurred to me that my packing
is very queer indeed: violin, gun, my few dearest books, and almost no
clothes. For my father says camp clothes, however new, won't wear the
air of town, and my tailor must be my first friend. Farewell, indeed!
Can you toss a bridegroom a two-syllabled word over your shoulder, and
turn him back at the door of the church? What is a church like? Is it
true the aisles are forest vistas? So the books say. O, the great race
of men, to have put nature into wood and stone!

[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to Ernest Hume_]

THE TREMONT HOUSE, BOSTON.

I am here, exactly where you told me to go, though Mrs. Montrose asked
me very cordially, again and again, to make my home with her. In front
of the hotel is a noisy, rattling street, full of madness, clamor, and
delight. (I said this to Zoe, and she laughed herself faint.
"Intoxicated by a Boston street!" said she. "Wait till you see Paris.")
At the side of the hotel is a yard full of graves, with little stones,
row upon row. O, so many graves! I realize what multitudes of men have
died, and how old the world must be. I thought of it last night, and it
bore upon me so, grave upon grave--and all the unnumbered dead of all
the wars--and I rose to look from my window into the busy, lighted
night, and think of men. How they seethe here in crowds. How they hurry
up and down, each in his little world, king of that alone, and alien to
his brother. It is so strange. I think I should die of loneliness if I
had not brought my own wit