oked at me with your pure eyes and
said,--like a little child, yet you are almost a woman,--"Oh, William,
I would not break its wings." And then sharply a thought struck me like
a pang. Can I perhaps 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; I would have you when the hour
comes. Despite the angel in your eyes, you were made to make fair a
home, to know in all its phases a man's love, to hold your children in
your arms,--children with eyes such as you have now,--and teach them
such things as pure beings like you can teach to children.

"Isn't it nice that they are butterflies last, William?" you said.
"Suppose they had to grow brown and ugly and to move slowly, instead
of flying, when they are old like people."

"It is like life and death," I told you, although God knows I am no
preacher. Perhaps it is because my body is at the war while my soul
is in Beechwood that 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 again all at once they were a child's
again, and you said: "Grandma's portrait in the hall is beautiful. She
was sixteen then. But she isn't pretty any more."

"No, she isn't pretty any more, Allison, yet once like you she chased
butterflies in the garden. And that portrait was painted the year before
she was married."

Why was it then that you turned away your eyes and the soft curve of
your cheek grew pink? Perhaps it is always so with the young girl at
the thought of love and marriage; but you are still a child.

"The butterfly has flown away, Allison, and you never even looked at
its golden wings," I reminded you, and you laughed and shrugged. "There
will be another," you said. Yes, there will always be more 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 feel it enough to have
known and loved you? Suppose you had never been in the world, and I had
loved some commonplace pretty girl instead of little Allison, with eyes
like an autumn brook in the sun?

Oh, my dear, the time is long, and I grow weary with my m