* * * * * Do you remember our first meeting ? It was one evening last spring . You were in your garden . The snow had not all gone , but your hands were full of pale , early flowers . You wore a white shawl over your shoulders and head . Your face was turned upward a little , listening to a robin 's call in the leafless trees above you . I thought God had never made anything so lovely and love-deserving . I loved you from that moment , Una . * * * * * This is your birthday . The world has been glad of you for twenty years . It is fitting that there have been bird songs and sunshine and blossom today , a great light and fragrance over land and sea . This morning I went far afield to a long , lonely valley lying to the west , girt round about with dim old pines , where feet of men seldom tread , and there I searched until I found some rare flowers meet to offer you . I sent them to you with a little book , an old book . A new book , savouring of the shop and marketplace , however beautiful it might be , would not do for you . So I sent the book that was my mother 's . She read it and loved it -- the faded rose-leaves she placed in it are there still . At first , dear , I almost feared to send it . Would you miss its meaning ? Would you laugh a little at the shabby volume with its pencil marks and its rose-leaves ? But I knew you would not ; I knew you would understand .
* * * * * Today I saw you with the child of your sister XXXXX your arms .
So above at for in of over that to with