Slowly I unbuttoned that black dress that symbolized the ending of
six years of the blackness of a married life, from which I had been
powerless to fend myself, and the rosy dimpling thing in snowy lingerie
with tags of blue ribbon that stood in front of my mirror was as
new-born as any other hour-old similar bundle of linen and lace in
Hillsboro, Tennessee. Fortunately, an old, year-before-last, white lawn
dress could be pulled from the top shelf of the closet in a hurry, and
the Molly that came out of that room was ready for life--and a lot of it
quick and fast.

And again, fortunately, Aunt Adeline had retired with a violent headache
and black Judy was carrying her in a hot water-bottle with a broad grin
on her face. Judy sees the world from the kitchen window and understands
everything. She had laid a large thick letter on the hall table where I
couldn't fail to see it.

I took possession of it and carried it to a bench in the garden that
backs up against the purple sprayed lilacs and is flanked by two rows of
tall purple and white iris that stand in line ready for a Virginia reel
with a delicate row of the poet's narcissus across the broad path. I
love my flowers. I love them swaying on their stems in the wind, and I
like to snatch them and crush the life out of them against my breast and
face. I have been to bed every night this spring with a bunch of cool
violets against my cheek and I feel that I am going to flirt with my
tall row of hollyhocks as soon as they are old enough to hold up their
heads and take notice. They always remind me of very stately gentlemen
and I have wondered if the fluffy little butter and eggs weren't shaking
their ruffles at them.

A real love-letter ought to be like a cream puff with a drop of dynamite
in it. Alfred's was that kind. I felt warm and happy down to my toes as
I read it and I turned around so old Lilac Bush couldn't peep over my
shoulder at what he said.

He wrote from Rome this time, where he had been sent on some sort of
diplomatic mission to the Vatican, and his letter about the Ancient City
on her seven hills was a prose-poem in itself. I was so interested that
I read on and on and forgot it was almost toast-apple time.

Of course, anybody that is anybody would be interested in Father Tiber
and the old Colosseum, but what made me forget the one slice of dry
toast and the apple was the way he seemed to be connecting me up with
all those wonderful old antiquities th