Below this was a newspaper clipping pasted neatly on the card. He read the title curiously: "My Page," and then the lines. It seemed to have been put there as though the picture and the poem belonged together. "Long years ago I held within my grasp An open page--a fair, white, goodly page-- Whereon to write a life. I filled it full,-- With love and love's sweet ministries,--with home And the dear homely cares which make most full A woman's life--my husband's sheltering care, And the soft prattle of a baby's voice. And then, in very peace and restfulness, I closed my eyes and said, 'I thank Thee, Lord, For life!'" He turned the picture over and looked long at the face. He did not see Philip's this time. What was this thing? Had she written it herself, or only found it somewhere and pasted it on the back of the photograph before giving it away? Perhaps the older woman had put it there. He read on: "A moment only--then I heard, 'A happy, sheltered life--but 'tis not thine.' I reached my hand to grasp my treasured page; It closed upon a bare, blank sheet--no more. And still the voice said, 'Write!'" He looked again at the picture. This sounded as if it might be an echo from her own life. Was it? Yet he had always thought her so cold. "Through falling tears That blurred the page and well-nigh hid the lines, With fainting heart and faltering hand I took The pen. It seemed that there was nothing more To write. I could not fill the page. One bare, Bald word came to me as I wrote. That word Was Duty, and I wrote it o'er and o'er. And then--so tender is our God!--so kind!-- The words grew luminous beneath my pen, And as I wrote were changed to 'Peace' and 'Joy.' "'And was it then the same fair page?' Ah, no! This had a margin, wide and deep and bare, With many a name erased and line left out; But 'twas my own--my very own--and all I had; and clutching it with death-like grip, I held it to me as I wrote once more." There came to him the very sound of her voice as she said passionately to him the day he tried to effect a reconciliation, "All I want now is to be allowed to live my own life--with my child!" "A whirlwind came--a tempest fierce and wild, Broke on my helpless head and bore me down; It wrenched my page away and beat it in The ground. And then it passed and left me there, A broken, prostrate thing. But ere the surge And roar had ceased there fell upon my ear The same word, 'Write!' "'Why, Lord!' I cried, 'how can I write? My page is gone!--the fragments torn And soiled and beaten to the earth! _One scrap Alone I hold of all that once was mine!_' The voice said tenderly, 'Take that thou hast And write.' Awe-struck, I listened and obeyed.