" But now he
was not going to write to the mother, but to his fiancee, to his
beloved one. At last he made up his mind and commenced his letter with
"My Darling Lily," as he had done in the old days. At first he wrote
slowly and with difficulty, for so many beautiful words and phrases
seemed to have disappeared from the clumsy, dry language of every-day
life; but as he warmed to his work, they awakened in his memory like
forgotten melodies, valse tunes, fragments of poems, elder-blossoms,
and swallows, sunsets on a mirror-like sea. All his memories of the
springtime of life came dancing along in clouds of gossamer and
enveloped her. He drew a cross at the bottom of the page, as lovers
do, and by the side of it he wrote the words: "Kiss here."
When the letter was finished and he read it through, his cheeks burnt
and he became self-conscious. He couldn't account for the reason.
But somehow he felt that he had shown his naked soul to a stranger.
In spite of this feeling he posted the letter.
A few days elapsed before he received a reply. While he was waiting
for it, he was a prey to an almost childish bashfulness and
embarrassment.
At last the answer came. He had struck the right note, and from the
din and clamour of the nursery, and the fumes and smell of the
kitchen, a song arose, clear and beautiful, tender and pure, like
first love.
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