And as I went there
dawned upon me the recollection of a little mirror in which, if I could
find it, she would see it still more lovely than in a direct looking at
itself. So I set myself to find it; for it lay in fragments in the drawers
and cabinets of my memory. And before I got home I had found all the pieces
and put them together; and then it was a lovely little sonnet which a
friend of mine had written and allowed me to see many years before. I was
in the way of writing verses myself; but I should have been proud to have
written this one. I never could have done that. Yet, as far as I knew, it
had never seen the light through the windows of print. It was with some
difficulty that I got it all right; but I thought I had succeeded very
nearly, if not absolutely, and I said it over and over, till I was sure I
should not spoil its music or its meaning by halting in the delivery of it.
"Look here, my Connie, what I have brought you," I said.
She held out her two white, half-transparent hands, took it as if it had
been a human baby and looked at it lovingly till the tears came in her
eyes. She would have made a tender picture, as she then lay, with her two
hands up, holding the little beauty before her eyes.
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