h to G. G. she developed upon the spot a
heavenly tenderness, mixed with a heavenly jealousy.

II

One day there came to G. G., in convalescence--it was after his mother
had gone back to New York--a great, thick package containing photographs
and a letter. I think the letter contained rouge--because it made G.
G.'s cheeks so red.

Cynthia had collected all the pictures she could find of herself in her
father's house and sent them to G. G. There were pictures of her in the
longest baby clothes and in the shortest. There were pictures posed for
occasions, pictures in fancy clothes, and a quart of kodaks. He had her
there on his knees--riding, driving, diving, skating, walking, sitting
on steps, playing with dogs, laughing, looking sad, talking, dimpling,
smiling. There were pictures that looked right at G. G., no matter at
what angle he held them. There were pictures so delicious of her that
he laughed aloud for delight.

All the stages of her life passed before his eyes--over and over--all
day long; and, instead of growing more and more tired, he grew more and
more refreshed. He made up his spotless mind to be worthy of her and to
make, for her to bear, a name of which nobody should be able to say
anything unkind.

If G. G. had had very little education he had made great friends with
some of the friendliest and most valuable books that had ever been
written. And he made up his mind, lying at full length--the livelong
day--in the bright, cold air--his mittened hands plunged into deep
pockets full of photographs--that, for her sake and to hasten that time
when they might always be together, he would learn to write books,
taking infinite pains. And he determined that these books should be as
sweet and clean and honorable as he could make them. You see, G. G. had
been under the weather so much and had suffered so much all alone by
himself, with nobody to talk to, that his head was already full of
stories about make-believe places and people that were just dying to get
themselves written. So many things that are dead to most people had
always been alive to him--leaves, flowers, fairies. He had always been a
busy maker of verses, which was because melody, rhythm, and harmony had
always been delicious to his ear. And he had had, as a little boy, a
soprano voice that was as true as truth and almost as agile as a canary
bird's.

He decided, then, very deliberately--lying upon his back and healing
that traitor lung of hi