standing on my porch pretty in September with blossoming trumpet-vine.
I went up to my room. The letter was in French. I could not read it—only his name, sweetly written—Jean Beaupré.
I took it to the public library and there with grammar and French lexicon I worked it out, as I had done the flannel pieces.
I made it grow—hid behind a stack of books.
"Dear Lady," the letter said. "The suit is beautiful. I am informed I am to have the honor of entering heaven in it
"If the good saint forgives my sins and lets me in
"So, lady, I will thank you when I see you there.
"You will know me by the stripes, pink and white, and all the pretty hand-stitches, lady, and the slippers, a little too large.
"Till we meet in heaven then—good day."
I could feel the hot tears in my eyes, for underneath his name was a message in another hand:
"Monsieur Beaupré died the day this note was written," it told me.
And I longed for the shelter of my own room.
That night on a New England hill-top, a widowed war-bride leaned out of her window
