April 30th.
Bobby’s wire reads:
Sure, Mike, I’ll be on hand at 5:30 Wednesday to welcome you on your retreat from Bosting. And don’t bother yourself about the train getting in at six or later, for I’ll be on the job and I’ll be there when you get there.
I have already ordered the lye hominy and turnip greens for dinner, and you’ll be properly looked after by the committee of one when you hit the town.
Hoping these few lines will find you the same, I remain,
Yours continuously,
B.
May 1st.
Bobby wasn’t at the train. If he was, we missed each other. I wasn’t conscious of it on the train, but now I know I pictured him there at the station, standing just a little in advance of the mass of people; vaguely, I think my mind ran the gamut of earth’s meetings and thought of dim shores, not of earth, where that one who goes first must surely await the other. To the whir of the wheels as they ate up the miles that lie between Boston and New York my heart sang, Bobby’s loved one, Bobby’s loved one. I was in a maze of vague, happy thought—and he wasn’t there—he didn’t meet me.
It is 12 P. M. now. I went with Miss Jackson to a horrid little show, and when we came in I could not believe there was not a message of some sort for me.
May 2d.