I was in a rose arbour,
on a day of late June, in a garden by a canal that led to Belgium. The
Becketts were in their house across the sea.
"Why," his mother hesitated, "it was quite a story. But when he found
you again he must have told you it all."
"Ah, but do tell me what he told you!"
"Well, it began with a landlady in a hotel wanting him to see a picture.
The artist was away, but his sister was there. That was you, my dear."
"Yes, it was I. My poor Brian painted such beautiful things before----"
"We know they were beautiful, because we've seen the picture," Father
Beckett broke in. "But go on, Mother. We'll tell about the picture by
and by. She'll like to hear. But the rest first!"
The little old lady obeyed, and went on. "Jimmy said he was taken to a
room, and there stood the most wonderful girl he'd ever seen in his
life--his 'dream come alive.' That's how he described her. And there was
more. Father, I never told you this part. But maybe Miss--Miss----"
"Will you call me 'Mary'?" I asked.
"Maybe 'Mary' would like to hear. Of course I never forgot one word. No
mother could forget! And now I see he described you just right. When you
hear, you'll know it was love made his talk about you poetry-like. Jimmy
never talked that way to me of any one, before or since."
Padre, I am going to write down the things he said of me, because it is
exquisite to know that he thought them. He said, I had eyes "like
sapphires fallen among dark grasses.
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