"I fancy I see you now, with the scarlet signals flaming on your cheeks, but, Iris, I shall never intrude. It is for you to say whether I shall love you in silence and afar, or face to face, as I dream that some day I may. "I want you, dear--I want you with all my heart. Of all the women in the world, you are the one God meant for me. Otherwise, why have I been so strangely led to you? "Since the first day I saw you, I have knelt at your feet. Not for one moment have I forgotten you, so flower-like, so womanly, so dear. So will it always be, whether I live or die. Even to my grave, I shall take the memory of you. "To-night my memories are few, but my dreams--they are so many that I could not begin to tell you all. But one of them you must know--that some day you will let me tell you how much I love you, and promise me that I may shield you all the rest of your life. "The wind should never make you cold, the sun should never shine too fiercely upon you, the storm should never beat against you, if I had my way. "Iris, may I come? Will you let me teach you to care? So sure am I of my love that I ask only for the chance to make you believe. "Put a flower on your gate-post when the moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I should come. Two flowers, if you are willing that I should come sometime, but not now. Then, when your name-flower embroiders the marshes, you will know who loves you--who worships you--who offers you his all." * * * * * That night, when the moon swung high in the heavens, Iris tiptoed out into the garden, with the letter--sentient, alive, and human--crushed close against her heart. So conscious was she of its presence that she felt it blazoned upon her breast for all the world to read. Dew made the grass damp, but Iris did not care. Threads of silver light picked out a dainty tracery, and here and there set a dew-drop to gleaming like a diamond among unnumbered pearls. Drowsy chirps came from the maples above her, where the little birds slept in their swaying nests and dreamed of wild flights at dawn. A great white moth brushed against her face, as softly as thistledown, and she laughed, because it was so like a kiss. Down toward her corner of the garden she went, her dimity skirts daintily uplifted. The moonlight touched a cobweb woven across the rose-bush, and made a rainbow of it. "A little lost rainbow," thought Iris, "out alone in the night, like me!" She stooped and gathered a sprig of mignonette, then a bit of rosemary from Mrs. Irving's garden. "She won't care," said Iris, to herself; "she used to love somebody, long ago."