And so the days had passed Of walking, driving, resting, many talks; For Elenor Murray spoke to Irma Leese Of tragic and of rapturous days in France, And Irma Leese, though she had lived full years, Had scarcely lived as much as Elenor Murray, And could not hear enough from Elenor Murray Of the war and France, but mostly she would urge Her niece to tell of what affairs of love Had come to her. And Elenor Murray told Of Gregory Wenner, save she did not tell The final secret, with a gesture touched The story off by saying: It was hopeless, I went into religion to forget. But on a day she said to Irma Leese: "I almost met my fate at Nice," then sketched A hurried picture of a brief romance. But Elenor Murray told her nothing else Of loves or men. But all the while the aunt Weighed Elenor Murray, on a day exclaimed: "I see myself in you, and you are like Your Aunt Corinne who died in ninety-two. I'll tell you all about your Aunt Corinne Some day when we are talking, but I see You have the Fouche blood--we are lovers all. Your mother is a lover, Elenor, If you would know it." "O, your Aunt Corinne She was most beautiful, but unfortunate. Her husband was past sixty when she married, And she was thirty-two. He was distinguished, Had money and all that, but youth is all, Is everything for love, and she was young, And he was old." A week or two had passed Since Elenor Murray came to Irma Leese, When on a morning fire broke from the eaves And menaced all the house; but maids and gardeners With buckets saved the house, while Elenor Murray And Irma Leese dipped water from the barrels That stood along the ell. A week from that A carpenter was working at the eaves Along the ell, and in the garret knelt To pry up boards and patch. When as he pried A board up, he beheld between the rafters A package of old letters stained and frayed, Tied with a little ribbon almost dust. And when he went down-stairs, delivered it To Irma Leese and said: Here are some letters I found up in the garret under the floor, I pried up in my work. Then Irma Leese Looked at the letters, saw her sister's hand, Corinne's upon the letters, opened, read, And saw the story which she knew before Brought back in this uncanny way, the hand Which wrote the letters six and twenty years Turned back to dust. And when her niece came in She showed the letters, said, "I'll let you read, I'll tell you all about them":