s--to be a writer. He didn't so decide entirely
because that was what he had always wanted to be, but for many reasons.
First place, he could say things to her through prose and verse that
could not be expressed in sculpture, music, painting, groceries, or
dry-goods. Second place, where she was, there his heart was sure to be;
and where the heart is, there the best work is done. And, third place,
he knew that the chances were against his ever living in dusty cities or
in the places of business thereof.

"I am so young," he wrote to her, "that I can begin at the beginning and
learn to be anything--in time to be it! And so every morning now you
shall think of G. G. out with his butterfly net, running after winged
words. That's nonsense. I've a little pad and a big pencil, and a hot
potato in my pocket for to warm the numb fingers at. And father's got an
old typewriter in his office that's to be put in order for me; and
nights I shall drum upon it and print off what was written down in the
morning, and study to see why it's all wrong. I think I'll never write
anything but tales about people who love each other. 'Cause a fellow
wants to stick to what he knows about...."

Though G. G. was not to see Cynthia again for a whole year he didn't
find any trouble in loving her a little more every day. To his mind's
eye she was almost as vivid as if she had been standing right there in
front of him. And as for her voice, that dwelt ever in his ear, like
those lovely airs which, once heard, are only put aside with death. You
may have heard your grandmother lilting to herself, over her mending,
some song of men and maidens and violets that she had listened to in her
girlhood and could never forget.

And then, of course, everything that G. G. did was a reminder of
Cynthia. With the help of one of Doctor Trudeau's assistants, who came
every day to see how he was getting on, he succeeded in understanding
very well what was the matter with him and under just what conditions a
consumptive lung heals and becomes whole. To live according to the
letter and spirit of the doctor's advice became almost a religion with
him.

For six hours of every day he sat on the porch of the house where he had
rooms, writing on his little pad and making friends with the keen,
clean, healing air. Every night the windows of his bedroom stood wide
open, so that in the morning the water in his pitcher was a solid block.
And he ate just the things he was told t