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 on your hands and your eyes cast down . I stole dear glances at you between the lines .
When I finished I put a red , red rose from your garden between the pages and crushed the book close XXXXX it .
So at between for in on though to upon with