The letters in this story are real letters. I know this because they were written to me by the man the world knows as 0. Henry, author, and only as the author. Not half a dozen people knew the real Sydney Porter, and the man was greater than the author.

There are other letters which are mine own, and no other eyes shall see them. But the letters in this book were not written to me as a woman, but rather to the little girl of his memory who lived next door to him in the street of Yesterday.

The background for the letters is pure fiction. Maybe I have let more of myself creep into this tale than I had planned. If this be true, the reason is that my whole thought centred upon revealing Sydney Porter to the lovers of O. Henry.

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