"
When the Old Lady got home she took from her top bureau drawer
an inlaid box of sandalwood. It held a little, slim, limp volume,
wrapped in tissue paper--the Old Lady's most treasured possession.
On the fly-leaf was written, "To Margaret, with the author's love."
The Old Lady turned the yellow leaves with trembling
fingers and, through eyes brimming with tears, read the verses,
although she had known them all by heart for years.
She meant to give the book to Sylvia for a birthday present--
one of the most precious gifts ever given, if the value
of gifts is gauged by the measure of self-sacrifice involved.
In that little book was immortal love--old laughter--
old tears--old beauty which had bloomed like a rose years ago,
holding still its sweetness like old rose leaves. She removed
the telltale fly-leaf; and late on the night before Sylvia's birthday,
the Old Lady crept, under cover of the darkness, through byways
and across fields, as if bent on some nefarious expedition,
to the little Spencervale store where the post-office was kept.
She slipped the thin parcel through the slit in the door,
and then stole home again, feeling a strange sense of loss
and loneliness. It was as if she had given away the last link
between herself and her youth.
Pages:
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72