"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 make-believing. I am a thousand miles away. A cold rain is falling. I could not bear it were it not for your voice in my ears: "Fight a good fight. Come back home soon, William." As soon, God pity me as I can. My country first, even if it robs me of life's dearest treasure. Ah, that I had dared before I left to speak the words in my heart, "Wait for me, sweetheart, wait till I come home; for it will be no true home unless you make it for me." But I did not say it. The hour was not yet. Pray God it may come for us both, for never will another know how to love you as I do, my Allison. YOUR FAITHFUL WILLIAM. March, '65. In battle, on the march, there has been no time for my letters, my sweetheart, and only in my dreams have I been able to fancy myself at the window overlooking your garden. But now there is a lull for writing. We feel that the end is drawing near. And so once more I can trust my dream self back in Beechwood with you. Last night I took you home from Uncle Alvin's. We walked slowly under the moon. The air was cool. You wore your little brown hood. You are taller now, little Allison. I lingered at the gate when I said good night. You lingered, too, and for the first time I knew--I cannot say how--that your soft childhood was unfolding its wings to depart. Not that I dared even to linger over your hand, still less to pull off the brown mitten and kiss the little hand curled soft and warm within; but the eyes that you turned to me had a graver light. Was it the sad news of the war, the death and tragedy about you? Jolly Dick Burrows, Arthur and Henry, struck down, blotted out. These are aging times, my sweetheart. Had you the consciousness of me as anything nearer than your old friend Lucretia's brother? Some day life will bring to you this thing that tears at my heart. Some day not so far off now. Sometimes I wonder that I dare hope it will come to me. WILLIAM. April 10, '65.