nd saw you waving.
But you trust life so fearlessly, child. You are only fifteen. At that
age one cannot imagine death. I am twenty-three and am a man. I knew I
must not speak. I knew it, though my heart was knocking against my sides
for love of you. So I shall not send these letters. I shall send you a
line now and then, but not of love. You will hear the news of me from
mother and the girls. I shall write these letters just the same, and
keep them, and if the day comes when those great eyes, those dear and
wonderful eyes, give the promise my heart is waiting for, then I shall
hand them to you to read, and you shall know how long and faithfully I
have loved you. I shall not write you of the war and the long marches;
those things will be in my home letters. To you I shall write only of
ourselves, not as if I were in the midst of battle and sudden death,
but as if I were at home in Beechwood, where my heart is, at my window
overlooking a corner of your garden. I am there now, sitting at my
window as I write. I have just caught a glimpse of you in your Sunday
gown, the white-and-green striped silk, with the tiny lavender flowers
scattered on the white ground. You were picking a spray of lemon verbena
to take to church. I see you in the little green bonnet in the high pew
beside your mother. You have the soul of a lover, my Allison. I know it
when I see you smell the fragrant flowers. Little Allison, how you will
love when your day comes! Your mouth, so young, so warm, so generous,
was made to give all; your pure eyes for complete trust. You belong to
me, my Allison, although you do not know it yet. Even as I write this,
fear shakes my heart. Have not all lovers thought the same? So strong
is the sense of possession in love, so impossible it seems to the human
heart that we should give all and receive nothing. What if some one
should rudely awaken your clear soul from its young sleep, lay hot
human hands upon you, my rose, my little cool, white flower! I can not
bear these thoughts. You are mine, and I shall let you sleep until the
moment comes for love to knock at the door of your heart. There shall
be no rude awakening. I shall speak first so gently, yes, you shall be
roused slowly from that sleep of childhood. Then you will put your hands
in mine and say, "William, I love you," just as you said to me to-day,
"Fight a good fight." And I will take those dear hands and draw you
slowly toward me and kiss you on your fine, str