ake-believing.
I am a thousand miles away. A cold rain is falling. I could not bear it
were it not for your voice in my ears: "Fight a good fight. Come back
home soon, William." As soon, God pity me as I can. My country first,
even if it robs me of life's dearest treasure. Ah, that I had dared
before I left to speak the words in my heart, "Wait for me, sweetheart,
wait till I come home; for it will be no true home unless you make it
for me."

But I did not say it. The hour was not yet. Pray God it may come for us
both, for never will another know how to love you as I do, my Allison.

YOUR FAITHFUL WILLIAM.

March, '65.

In battle, on the march, there has been no time for my letters, my
sweetheart, and only in my dreams have I been able to fancy myself at
the window overlooking your garden. But now there is a lull for writing.
We feel that the end is drawing near. And so once more I can trust my
dream self back in Beechwood with you.

Last night I took you home from Uncle Alvin's. We walked slowly
under the moon. The air was cool. You wore your little brown hood.
You are taller now, little Allison. I lingered at the gate when I
said good night. You lingered, too, and for the first time I knew--I
cannot say how--that your soft childhood was unfolding its wings to
depart. Not that I dared even to linger over your hand, still less
to pull off the brown mitten and kiss the little hand curled soft and
warm within; but the eyes that you turned to me had a graver light.
Was it the sad news of the war, the death and tragedy about you?
Jolly Dick Burrows, Arthur and Henry, struck down, blotted out. These
are aging times, my sweetheart. Had you the consciousness of me as
anything nearer than your old friend Lucretia's brother? Some day
life will bring to you this thing that tears at my heart. Some day not
so far off now. Sometimes I wonder that I dare hope it will come to me.

WILLIAM.

April 10, '65.

It has come, the news has come; the war is over. A few days, weeks,
and I shall be with you. I have been wounded. They have told you that,
have they not? But it is nothing, a scratch. It troubles me now, but it
will soon be over. Last night I sat in the hot Southern twilight that
smelled of jessamine and dreamed myself back with you in New England,
where the spring nights are cold. But I did not dream any more the
meetings of fantasy. My mind leaped forward, and dreamed of my real
home-coming. I had greeted them all,