etween her parted lips and she stood valiant and
sturdy in the snow--a strong, resolute girl, built like a
boy--clean-cut, crystal-pure, and steel-true. A shot sounded and there
came to them presently the pungent, acid smell of burnt powder.

"And we shall never hurt things or kill them," said G. G. "And every day
when I've been good I shall kiss your feet and your hands."

"And when I've been good," she said, "you'll smile at me the way you're
smiling now--and it won't be necessary to die and go to Heaven to see
what the gentlemen angels look like."

"But," cried G. G., "whoever heard of going to Heaven? It comes to
people. It's here."

"And for us," she said, "it's come to stay."

All the young people came to the station to see Cynthia off and G. G.
had to content himself with looking things at her. And then he went back
to his room and undressed and went to bed. Because for a week he had
done all sorts of things that he shouldn't have done, just to be with
Cynthia--all the last day he had had fever and it had been very hard for
him to look like a joyous boy angel--he knew by experience that he was
in for a "time." It is better that we leave him behind closed doors with
his doctors and his temperature. We may knock every morning and ask how
he is, and we shall be told that he is no better. He was even delirious
at times. And it is only worth while going into this setback of G. G's
because there are miracles connected with it--his daily letter to
Cynthia.

Each day she had his letter--joyous, loving, clearly writ, and full of
flights into silver-lined clouds and the plannings of Spanish castles.
Each day G. G. wrote his letter and each day he descended a little
farther into the Valley of the Shadow, until at last he came to Death
Gate--and then rested, a voyager undecided whether to go on or to go
back. Who may know what it cost him to write his letter, sitting there
at the roadside!

His mother was with him. It was she who took the letter from his hands
when he sank back into his pillows; and they thought for a little that
he had gone from that place--for good and all. It was she who put it
into the envelope and who carried it with her own hands to the
post-office. Because G. G. had said: "To get there, it must go by the
night's mail, Mumsey."

G. G.'s mother didn't read the letter; but you may be sure she noted
down the name and address in her heart of hearts, and that for the girl
who seemed to mean so muc