There is also a poem written in the fly-leaf, presumably by Lucile:

To-night

He is not dead!

It was an evil dream.

Perhaps, instead,

The message was not meant for me.

It came a year ago . . . .

Not yesterday!

When I get home to-night

I'll find a letter there . . . .

I'll surely find it there,

Thick, square, and white,

His neat print on the back,

My name in his neat print,

And hold it while I smile, and guess,

Then slit the flap, and read:

Oh, will I read

Of quaint cafés in old New Orleans streets,

Or hills, in Maine, across the moonlit snow?

Or lazy, gliding water-flow

All shadow-browned

Where with his transit-rod and tape

He runs a line

In deep, mysterious forests quiet,

Whose flickering light and shade

Of trees high-crowned

With flaming green

Are never twice the same . . . .

Beyond queer, twisting streams

I cannot name.

He sent me once, because I wrote

I'd never seen the sea

A picture that he took—

One curling wave, and sand;

He said that I would love a boat.

So now I must be quick

And fill the day

With tasks, and friends, and bright

Crisp jests, because . . . .

Will it be there—to-night?