The postman, several days before his death, brought Jeannette’s letter. It was marked with many addresses; and by the censor “To be held.” Then later stamped, [pg 32] “Passed by base censor No. ——. Verificato per censura.”
The letter, which he read several times, first brought a few big tears; then he seemed to gather resignation; then happiness from it.
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Early in June, the month of brides and roses, Jeannette received a letter from Mrs. Allen:
“Dear Jeannette:
“John, my boy, died last Sunday, with your letter in his hand and it was buried with him. He requested that his books be sent to you, and they will be forwarded tomorrow.
“As soon as you can get away from your school and leave your grandmother, if she will not come too, come and see me. I must have some one to talk with about John; some one whom he knew and loved. When I try it with his father, he rushes from the room. John was an only child—now I am childless.
“He claimed to have seen you before he died, saying: ‘Mother, I have just seen Jeannette; she is very beautiful.’ Then he described you. I believe he really saw; and if his description fits, you can help me now. You were sitting on the Big Rock by the creek. It was the night of the fourth of June. I can write no more.
“John’s mother,
“Mary R. Allen.”
Jeannette had always felt that her life, which she knew was a silent, empty and colorless one without, was gloriously full and lit up within by a mystical treasure, which in some way she had stumbled upon and appropriated. She had soul companions who spoke to her with voices she alone could hear; that told of things in her own and other people’s lives, that she and they might [pg 33] know, if they would but listen. She had lived a soul life; and it had a far-flung horizon.