“It doesn’t sound like me,” she commented in a voice that shook. “It’s--it’s too nice.” And, again, she wiped away tears. I leaned over, and folded the sheet, and stuck it in the envelope and sealed it, as Leslie laughed in a funny, weak way. “Where are your stamps?” I asked. She told me, and I licked one and stuck it on. Then we kissed each other, and that was unusual. I never was so very much for kissing everybody all the time, and I think when girls do, too much, it’s silly, but it was different that night. Then I went out and laid the letter on the table in the hall--we always left them there for the first person who went out to take, and then I looked in to see that Viola was still sleeping, and after that I went to bed. That day began a new sort of life for us all. The tragedy that came to Viola was like a stone that is thrown into the center of a still pool. All sorts of widening circles grew from her trouble, and she, herself, found through it a new depth. I don’t mean that everything changed in a day, for things don’t change in that manner, but all the time Viola was building up new habits in place of the old ones that were crumbling away. I saw the roots of a fine strong habit, on the day when she got the first letter from home written after her father died. I was with her when it came, and she looked up from the black-bordered sheet to say--vacantly, and in a level, stupid-sounding sort of tone--“He _was_ poor!” I was sewing clean cuffs and collars in my serge dress and I stuck myself and made a spot of blood on one cuff. I was so sorry for her that I really shook when anything new that was hard came to her. “Read it, Jane,” she said, and she held out the letter. I did, and I couldn’t imagine that any one who had ever known or really loved Viola’s father had written it. It was full of complaints and self-pity, because the husband of the woman who had written it had died to leave his widow with less money than she thought she should have. I didn’t know what to say. Then I suppose I did a dreadful thing, but I did it without meaning to do anything dreadful, and because I have been brought up to speak the truth. “Maybe,” I said, “he is happier dead.” The tears stood out in Viola’s eyes. “I only said that,” I explained miserably, “because I thought it might make you feel better, for if your mother talked to him like that I--I guess it worried you--” (I stammered terribly over it; it was so hard to say anything that sounded even half right) “I talked that way too,” said Viola. I couldn’t say anything to that. So I began to sew in my collar. “He hated the hyphenated name!” said Viola. I finished sewing in my collar and began on my last cuff. “I don’t mind the money, but I have to think of it--what shall I do? I hate sponging. I will say I _always_ hated it! Mother can go visit people--and she will--but I--I _can’t_!” “Why don’t you work?” I asked.