Barton's River,
Vermont.
N.B.B.O.O.--To be opened by nobody but her.
Rose laid down the hammer mechanically, opened the envelope, and unfolded the piece of brown paper from out of which fluttered to the floor another and thicker slip, stained almost beyond recognition. With staring eyes and face as white as driven snow she read the few words scrawled in pencil on the brown slip:--
DEAR ROSE-POSE,--I ain't no wish to meddle with anybody's business--but I 'm just obeying orders. The last words I heard Jack Sherrill speak, was "Give--love," and he fumbled at his breast to get out this enclosed. I ain't read it--but it's his heart's blood that's on it. Give my love to all.
Yours forever,
CHI.
"His heart's blood!" For a moment the words conveyed no meaning. She picked up the iron-rusty brown slip from the floor; unfolded it; read--Barry Cornwall's love-song in her own handwriting!
"His heart's blood!" She pressed one hand hard upon her own heart, crushing with the other the dark-stained slip. Then, with one wild look around her as if searching for help, she ran down the steps, across the mowing, over into the pasture and up into the woodlands. Deep, deep into the heart of them she made her way, as her mother, Mary Blossom, had done before her; but now there was no kneeling, no prayer, no petition to take from her the intolerable pain.
She was young, and she loved as the young love. It was not God whom she wanted; it was "Jack! Jack! Jack!" She cast herself face down upon the ground, and moaned in her agony: "His heart's blood--his heart's blood." She pressed the stained paper to her lips, over and over again. Then she opened her blouse and baring her bosom, laid the love-song against it--"His heart's blood--his heart's blood!"