And when summer's sunshine shimmers, and the birds sing clear and sweet,
I am waiting, always waiting, for the joy I hope to meet.

It will be, I think, my husband, and the home he'll make for me;
But of his coming or home-making, I as yet no signs do see.
But I still shall keep on waiting, for I know it's true as fate,
When you really, truly hustle, things will come if just you'll wait."

I don't think much of that. It sounds like "Dearest Willie, thou hast
left us, and thy loss we deeply feel." But I wasn't meant for a poet any
more than Miss Katherine for an old maid.

Dr. Parke Alden must be dead. Either that or he's no gentleman, or he
didn't get my letter. I wish I hadn't written it. I wish I hadn't let
him know I was living. But it was Miss Katherine I was thinking about.
Thank Heaven, I didn't mention her name! He isn't worth thinking about,
and I think of nothing else.




XIII

HIS COMING


If I could get out on the roof and shake hands with the stars, or dance
with the man in the moon, I might be able to write it down; but
everything in me is bubbling and singing so, I can't keep still to
write. But I'm bound to put down that he's come. He's come!