But Ellen did not go right to sleep. In this first quiet moment her thoughts rioted. There was so much to consider, to plan, to execute. Uppermost was the consideration of Miss Rindy’s position. It was all so difficult. For all the doctor had told her not to worry, she knew that she must, for no one could realize so well what debt meant to Miss Rindy. “Of course we can scrimp and save,—we shall have to,—but it will be a long, uphill pull. If only I could think of some way to earn enough.” She lay with wide-open eyes, staring into the dark; then all at once she sat up, as a brilliant idea came to her. “Of course,” she exclaimed, “that would fix it. Why didn’t I think of it before?” Then she lay down, turned over, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. CHAPTER XI THE VIOLIN There was no lying abed for Ellen the next morning. There were things to be done, and to be done quickly, so she lost no time in getting ready immediately after breakfast to go to her cousin’s house. “I don’t see why you are in such a hurry,” complained Caro. “If you will wait a while, I can go with you. Mother wants to try on the dress I am to wear to Florence’s party this evening. Of course you will go, Ellen.” “Oh, but I am not invited.” “That is because Florence didn’t know you would be here. When she knows you are visiting me of course she will expect you.” Ellen shook her head. “I don’t think so. Moreover, I really don’t feel in the humor for going; I am tired after all the excitement of the past week.” “Well, maybe you’ll change your mind before night. I do want you to go with me.” Ellen did not reply, but hurried off. It was a crisp, bright morning. Snow, which had fallen a few days before, still lay in little heaps on the spots untouched by the sun. As Ellen turned the key in the door Wipers bounded to meet her from a warm corner where he had been curled up. She stooped to stroke him, and then entered the chilly house. It was very still and desolate, windows barred and lower rooms dark. Ellen did not tarry on the lower floor, but mounted the stairs to her own room, leaving her violin on the hall table. How cold and silent it was, yet the sun was streaming in, and, as she looked around at the familiar objects, she realized that this was home and that she was glad to get back to it. She busied herself for a time in putting together the things Miss Rindy had asked for, and when these were ready she went back to her own room, took out her writing materials, and sat thoughtfully looking out the window. She had kept on her coat, so she decided that she would not take cold if she remained long enough to write the note, which was an important one. How should she begin it? Should she say “My dear Reed,” “Dear Cronine,” or “My dear Mr. Marshall”? Finally she decided that as this was a strictly business matter she would best be as formal as possible; therefore she wrote: “My dear Mr. Marshall: