My books and portraits are the only things I should be
eternally hurt to survive. To her argument that the books could be put
there,--there was room enough,--I refused to listen. I had no idea of
putting my books underground to be mildewed. Besides, if it had been
possible I would not have attempted it--and it distinctly was
impossible. I felt a good deal like the Belgian refugies I had
seen,--all so well dressed; if my house was going up, it was going up in
its best clothes. I had just been uprooted once--a horrid
operation--and I did not propose to do it again so soon. To that my
mind was made up.
Luckily for me--for Amelie was as set as I was--the argument was cut
short by a knock at the front door. I opened it to find standing there
a pretty French girl whom I had been seeing every day, as, morning and
evening, she passed my gate to and from the railway station. Sooner or
later I should have told you about her if all this excitement had not
put it out of my mind and my letters. I did not know her name. I had
never got to asking Amelie who she was, though I was a bit surprised to
find any one of her type here where I had supposed there were only
farmers and peasants.
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