held Biddy, her dresses tucked above slim
little knees, playing in the sand on the beach, her hair flying in the
wind and lighted by the sun which gave sparkle to the sea. I saw Maude
herself in her beach chair, a book lying in her lap, its pages whipped
by the breeze. And there was Moreton, who must be proving something of
a handful, since he had fought with the French boys on the beach and
thrown a "rock" through the windows of the Buffon family. I remember one
of his letters--made perfect after much correcting and scratching,--in
which he denounced both France and the French, and appealed to me
to come over at once to take him home. Maude had enclosed it without
comment. This letter had not been written under duress, as most of his
were.

Matthew's letters--he wrote faithfully once a week--I kept in a little
pile by themselves and sometimes reread them. I wondered whether it
were because of the fact that I was his father--though a most inadequate
one--that I thought them somewhat unusual. He had learned French--Maude
wrote--with remarkable ease. I was particularly struck in these letters
with the boy's power of observation, with his facile use of language,
with the vivid simplicity of his descriptions of the life around him, of
his experiences at school. The letters were thoughtful--not dashed off
in a hurry; they gave evidence in every line of the delicacy of feeling
that was, I think, his most appealing quality, and I put them down with
the impression strong on me that he, too, longed to return home, but
would not say so. There was a certain pathos in this youthful restraint
that never failed to touch me, even in those times when I had been most
obsessed with love and passion.... The curious effect of these letters
was that of knowing more than they expressed. He missed me, he wished to
know when I was coming over. And I was sometimes at a loss whether to be
grateful to Maude or troubled because she had as yet given him no hint
of our separation. What effect would it have on him when it should be
revealed to him?... It was through Matthew I began to apprehend certain
elements in Maude I had both failed to note and appreciate; her little
mannerisms that jarred, her habits of thought that exasperated, were
forgotten, and I was forced to confess that there was something fine in
the achievement of this attitude of hers that was without ill will or
resentment, that tacitly acknowledged my continued rights and interest
i