The Best Short Stories of 1915

15,

tters 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, alth

till

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ith the d

were you so shy? You are too young to have a lover. There is no one except the tow-headed Bowman boy across the street. It could not have been he. Then you went to the piano, and I heard you singing softly, "My Love is like a Red, Red Rose." What can you know of love, my little one? I

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hey all were!" you said. You were too young to understand. I look in the eyes of the little girl in the picture, and she does not understand. The little girl is a year younger than you, and the green-and-white frock in the picture was torn and darned last summer. I remember how you looked, bent over your needle, your red lips a little heavy with unspoken protest as you sewed the long rent. What a child you always were to tear your frocks and get berry stains on your white aprons and scratch your fin

d, and you had outgrown the dress. "It isn't pretty any more, but I mustn't have a new one," you said. "It is wicked for us to have new things when the soldiers are ragged and cold." And that l

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hands save as a friend, my Allison, you will still be mine, because I have divined the fine mysteries of your spirit. I am your worshiper and knight, whatever fate befalls us. "We needs must love the highest when we see it," says the new poet across the water. No truer words were ever spoken. So in that fine inner sense I am yours and you are mine whether you

asked. "You surely would not hurt it. If you thr

t me with yo

am. I only wanted to see th

rhaps see you better with my soul's eyes, Allison, if you are never mine? Would I break your wings in touching you? Are you something too fine and fair for human experience? It came like a presentiment then that you would never be mine in the dear common human way. Can it be so, dear love? No, no

u said. "Suppose they had to grow brown and ugly and to mov

at I must sometimes think these thoughts of death. Your eyes looked straight into mine then, with something like a reflection of heaven's light. Then agai

e you she chased butterflies in the garden. And that

of your cheek grew pink? Perhaps it is always so with the young gi

butterflies in the garden, and there will always be more lovers in the world for such as you while your sweet youth lasts, whether I live to woo you or not. That thought saddens me. Yet should I not

ice 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,

y God it may come for us both, for never will a

ithful

ch,

I been able to fancy myself at the window overlooking your garden. But now there is a lull for writing. We

ing 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 a

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e heavy with the flower dust, the air was fragrant. And then at last I saw the consciousness of womanhood in your eyes-those clear eyes that have always looked so straight at mine, straight into my heart, it seemed, although I knew they were too young to see. Not once except for that first moment when you said, with lowered lids, "Welcome home, William," did you look at me. And as we sat on the garden seat, I could see your color rise, the lace scarf tremble with your quickened breath. And then I took your hand. "I have come home to you, Allison," I said. "What have you to say to me?" But you would not raise your eyes. I took both of your hands then. "Look at me,

some other man has taught you love, how s

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All

oncoming death shall not be for you, my beloved. You shall see me till the last as Lucretia's brother, not your lover. I cannot trust myself to think of that other man who will live my dreams. Yet for myself I ask only to live till the end with my eyes filled with the sight of you; to live in fact and memory over each tone of your voice, each light and shade on that dear face. You are not a child now. With your dark braids about your star-like face, you are a woman, ready to waken to the knowledge of love; but, thank God! not yet awakened. So I may know still the cool, unconscious touch of your hand, your dear daily gift of flowers, watch your sweet down-bent head as you come to read to me here in our garden, and not heed the words for the de

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he hands of the clock marking the half hour past midnight, then pick

existed no more. He wondered whether she also had d

oved him? Had she known that he loved her? He picked up the picture again. The face seemed vaguel

llison, in love with your lost youth, in love with the

he had not thought of it before,-it must be, it surely was, Miss Allison Clyde. He studied the young pictu

letters, replaced them in their envelope, and put them away. Suddenly, sharply the con