One pleasant afternoon I happened around to the Wells house, as usual, knowing very well that Geno, dressed in her most becoming of summer toilets, would soon join me on the veranda. Perhaps I was a little earlier than usual at my accustomed seat; anyway, I became a little impatient at Geno not putting in an appearance promptly, and thinking perhaps she might not have become aware of my presence, stepped into the hall to try to make it known to her. The windows had all been closely shaded, to exclude the bright August sunlight, giving the hallway a cool and inviting half-darkened appearance. Stepping into the parlor, affecting a little cough as a signal that I was around the house, I had scarcely seated myself when my quick ear caught the sound of her footsteps as she quickly tripped down the stairway.
Lest I have neglected to mention it, I will say here that Geno was a sweet girl, with beautiful eyes, and, moreover, she was womanly in figure and graceful in action, in that hers was of the ethereal style of beauty so aptly described by Longfellow's "Evangeline." And she was sixteen, while I was twenty. Rising to greet her, I advanced to the door just as her lithe figure darkened it. She looked so nice, and you know the parlor and hallway were shrouded by that dim, religious light one reads about. I was tempted, and, yielding to the youthful impulse, grasped both her hands in mine, and attempted to steal a kiss—the first kiss of love.
I had by her quiet dignity of manner during my visit been repelled from attempting anything of a too familiar kind on such a short war-acquaintance. She quickly dropped her head, turning her face from me, while I held both hands tightly in my own, and uttered only that one little word of four letters "Geno." Whether it was the tone of voice, the imploring or entreating manner and earnest emphasis, or a mild reproach, I knew not. She answered not a word, but turned her pretty blushing face up to mine, while her beautiful eyes pierced to my soul, and I—I—oh!
Here I drop my pen, put my feet on the desk on which I have been writing this, lay my head back in my lazy chair, and with both hands pressed on my face I bring back this one blissful moment of my life twenty-five years agone, as if it were but yesterday. I can not write of it. It's a "true love" story, as the sequel will show, and none but those who have been there in war-times will appreciate it.
Before I could do it again she had deftly slipped away from me, and, like a frightened deer, glided into a dark corner of the parlor; from behind a chair she blushingly cast reproachful glances toward me, while she rearranged the hair that she had taken so much pains to bewitchingly do up, and that had so long delayed her appearance.
There is a song, and of course plenty of melody and poetry in it, which I have frequently asked friends to sing—"Il Bacio"—which more aptly describes this one blissful moment than my pen can write.
After this there was a sort of an understanding between us that all lovers, who have been there, will understand, and it is not necessary for me to explain.
I had Geno's first love; and it is a true saying that, in a woman's first love, she loves her lover; in all the rest, she loves love.
I have been in love—oh, often—so many times that I cannot enumerate all, but Geno was my "war girl"; and all old soldiers will agree with me that there is a something in the very memories of love and war that touch the heart in a way that is not reached by any other feeling.
Do not for a moment imagine that there was any attempt on the part of this truly happy family to take any advantage of the tender susceptibilities of the "Boy Spy." They knew absolutely nothing of my past record.