"Hair has a lot to do with love, Gabrielle," whispered Mr. Gibson. "Think what an uphill job it would have been for Jim with a bald head."
"Never could have done it," said Jim, huskily, determined to break in somewhere on a long chance that the letter would blow out to sea or the Produce Exchange tower topple over.
"'Haste, my sweetheart,'" continued Nellie, "'is my excuse—haste which wholly disregards the trifling detail; but I see my error now and enclose a yard of blue ribbon to be converted by your deft hands into a tight bow-knot where the unpoetic cotton now binds the clipped token of my love. I pray there may be enough left to gather a generous lock of the golden tresses for which I yearn. You will not withhold them, will you, Margaret? What sweet thoughts proceed from memory's strongholds:
"'Can I forget—canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quickly thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh, by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
"'When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproached, yet raised desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.
"'And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below,
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seemed stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smoothed on snow.'
"'While it may be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, there are limitations, believe me, to man's endurance. Three months will find me worn to a scant shadow, a mere tissue, so sharp that the dial at noonday cannot point with finer finger the passage of the sun under the meridian wire. Only the first month is now waning, and I dare not look a weighing machine in the face, for fear I might fall in the slot. I am not facetious, believe me, Margaret.
"'Fear underlies my woe. Annoying images, at first vague, gather strength of outline and haunt me like evil prophecies. Of course, there is naught but fear to account for these distressing delusions, but is it not as real when it wounds as the dagger's point? How shall we banish the terrors that arise in lonely hours? In writing to you these thoughts as they flow from the deep reservoirs of my soul, through the conduit of pen, in inky tracings on this fair page, my sweetest hours are spent. Here is an outlet that reduces in some measure the roaring flood-waters, as strength abides to perform the necessary physical evolutions till repose comes o'er me; then I slip into the Land of Nod through a lane of sweet magnolias, and approach the rose-bedecked gates garlanded as if for the entry of a prince and his bride. You are with me then, and as the cheering populace greets us, a herald stands forth and addresses you thus:
"'She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to the tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
"'And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.'"