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Rh 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