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 in your arms . I felt as the old painters must have felt when they painted their Madonnas . You bent over his shining golden head , and on your face was the mother passion and tenderness that is God 's finishing touch to the beauty of womanhood . The next moment you were laughing with him -- two children playing together . But I had looked upon you in that brief space . Oh , the pain and joy of it ! * * * * * It is so sweet , dear , to serve you a little , though it be only in opening a door for you to pass through , or handing you a book or a sheet of music ! Love wishes to do so much for the beloved ! I can do so little for you , but that little is sweet . * * * * * This evening I read to you the poem which you had asked me to read .
You sat before me with your brown head leaning XXXXX your hands and your eyes cast down .
At So as in on over that though to with