As he passed I leaned from the window and threw a rosebud
at him.

But he did not see it.

Then I threw a cake of soap and a toothbrush at him. But
I missed him, and he passed on.

* * *

Another Day.

Love has come into my life. It fills it. I have seen
HIM again. I have spoken with him. He sat beside the
river on his camp stool. How beautiful he looked, sitting
on it: how strong he seemed and how frail the little stool
on which he sat.

Before him was the easel and he was painting. I spoke to him.

I know his name now.

His name--. How my heart beats as I write it--no, I cannot
write it, I will whisper it--it is Otto Dinkelspiel.

Is it not a beautiful name? Ah!

He was painting on a canvas--beautiful colours, red and gold
and white, in glorious opalescent streaks in all directions.