Then there’s a noiseless noise in the orchard that I let persons hear. You told me in one letter you could not come to see me “now,” and I made no answer; not because I had none, but did not think myself the price that you should come so far. I do not ask so large a pleasure, lest you might deny me. You say, “Beyond your knowledge.” You would not jest with me, because I believe you; but, preceptor, you cannot mean it? All men say “What” to me, but I thought it a fashion. When much in the woods, as a little girl, I was told that the snake would bite me, that I might pick a poisonous flower, or goblins kidnap me; but I went along and met no one but angels, who were far shyer of me than I could be of them, so I haven’t that confidence in fraud which many exercise. I shall observe your precept, though I don’t understand it, always. I marked a line in one verse, because I met it after I made it, and never consciously touch a paint mixed by another person. I do not let go it, because it is mine. Have you the portrait of Mrs. Browning? Persons sent me three. If you had none, will you have mine? YOUR SCHOLAR. A month or two after this I entered the volunteer army of the Civil War, and must have written to her during the winter of 1862-63 from South Carolina or Florida, for the following reached me in camp:— AMHERST. DEAR FRIEND,—I did not deem that planetary forces annulled, but suffered an exchange of territory, or world. I should have liked to see you before you became improbable. War feels to me an oblique place. Should there be other summers, would you perhaps come? I found you were gone, by accident, as I find systems are, or seasons of the year, and obtain no cause, but suppose it a treason of progress that dissolves as it goes. Carlo still remained, and I told him. Best gains must have the losses’ test, To constitute them gains. My shaggy ally assented. Perhaps death gave me awe for friends, striking sharp and early, for I held them since in a brittle love, of more alarm than peace. I trust you may pass the limit of war; and though not reared to prayer, when service is had in church for our arms, I include yourself.... I was thinking to-day, as I noticed, that the “Supernatural” was only the Natural disclosed. Not “Revelation” ’tis that waits, But our unfurnished eyes. But I fear I detain you. Should you, before this reaches you, experience immortality, who will inform me of the exchange? Could you, with honor, avoid death, I entreat you, sir. It would bereave YOUR GNOME. I trust the “Procession of Flowers” was not a premonition.