loved. You shall see me till the last
as Lucretia's brother, not your lover. I cannot trust myself to think
of that other man who will live my dreams. Yet for myself I ask only
to live till the end with my eyes filled with the sight of you; to live
in fact and memory over each tone of your voice, each light and shade
on that dear face. You are not a child now. With your dark braids about
your star-like face, you are a woman, ready to waken to the knowledge
of love; but, thank God! not yet awakened. So I may know still the cool,
unconscious touch of your hand, your dear daily gift of flowers, watch
your sweet down-bent head as you come to read to me here in our garden,
and not heed the words for the dearness of dreaming over your face,
living so intensely each moment of you. Oh, my sweet, why did you go
so soon to-day? I know it was to buy ribbons for a new muslin for Molly
Dearborn's party. You must go to your parties, be happy. That is all I
wish. Yet you would so gladly have given me that hour if you had known.
Some one could have matched the ribbon for you. "Allison does not know,"
I heard Lucretia say the other day. "We do not want her to know. It
would distress her too much." I shall not let you know, my darling.
I write it now, but I shall blot it out lest it hurt you too much to
know afterward how precious each moment you gave me was, lest it grieve
your tender heart to know there was something more you might have given
had you known.

WILLIAM.

Like one coming out of a dream, Mark glanced about the room, noted the
hands of the clock marking the half hour past midnight, then picked up
the picture of the girl who was young more than forty years ago.

With a little sense of shock it came to him that she existed no more. He
wondered whether she also had died in her sweet youth or lived still, an
old woman.

If she was alive, had she married some one not Uncle William? Or had she
never married? Had she loved him? Had she known that he loved her? He
picked up the picture again. The face seemed vaguely familiar. It seemed
to speak to him. He lost himself in dreams and roused himself with a
laugh.

"I believe I am half in love with you myself, little Allison, in love
with your lost youth, in love with the shadow of a shadow. And _that_
is a subject for a song--"

Allison, a quaint little name it was. Allison what? Who was she? It
struck him suddenly,--he wondered that he had not thought of it
before,--it must