It was addressed to "My dear friend," and the writer was _so sorry_
he was going away so _very soon_, and had hoped he would stay _ever_ so
much longer, and then signed herself cordially his, Susan Burleigh Braxton.
At the bottom was a postscript--"I will expect you at three o'clock."
An hour before the appointed time the Colonel was striding impatiently up
and down before the Elms, incessantly consulting his watch or wistfully
gazing up the gravelled walk. It still lacked several minutes of three,
when his heart gave a great jump as he saw Miss Braxton's graceful figure
flitting in and out through the shrubbery. She stopped to pluck some roses
from a bush that hung over the walk, bending down the richly laden bough so
that the flowers made a complete circle about her bright young face, and as
she raised her eyes she caught the Colonel gazing at her with such a look
of abject idolatry that she laughed and blushed. "You see I am on time,"
she cried, gayly, hastening down to the gate and handing him one of her
roses. "I am going to the post-office, and you may walk with me if you care
to." If he cared to! Her mere presence beside him, the feeling that he
could reach out his hand and touch her, the music of her voice, filled him
with a joy of which he had never before dreamed.
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