Carin, we are off. The “little windows” are all boarded up. The servants have been driven to the station. Outside the door the touring car is standing, silent but eager. I swear it looks eager, and that I am horribly afraid of it. I expect to have a chill. My teeth chatter at this moment at the thought of riding in that long, raging, rushing thing around these winding mountain roads. I feel as if this might be the last letter I shall ever write to you. I said I loved Accident, but that depends on how she looks. To-day I do not like the looks of her. I cut her acquaintance. If you never hear from me again, remember how I loved you. Aunt Lorena and Uncle David are putting the last touches to things, and I am sitting on the porch scribbling in my notebook. From here we can see thirty peaks and many valleys and rivers. The rivers are silver threads in the purple distance, winding and winding. There is an eagle just above the house, probably come to see that we get safely away. I wish he would teach me how to fly so that I wouldn’t have to ride in that terrible machine. The only thing that cheers me up is the thought that I am really going home. After so many homeless years, or years in which I had a home only by the kindness of others, I am going to my own home, to my own grandmother, blood of my blood, the mother of my father. Do you suppose those who love us and are dead, know what is happening to us? Is my own little mother seeing me this day? Is she glad I am going to the home which never opened its doors to her? Am I loyal to her in going? These questions are too hard for me to answer. I only know that my uncle and aunt would be shocked and deeply offended if I did not go with them, and I remember that to the last my mother loved my father. When she lay dead that day in dear Mother McBirney’s house, they found in the leather pocket book she carried, a little piece of dark hair which must have been his, with her “wedding lines,” as Mother McBirney called them, and a little blurred picture which was, no doubt, of him. But her tears or the rain had dimmed it so we could barely see it. Your letter was brought me last night, Carin, and was the greatest sort of a comfort. Oh, I knew you would understand. Aren’t you taking too many studies? You mustn’t wear yourself out. Never forget that you are going to be an artist and that you have to consider your talent above everything else. So be careful not to use yourself up on mathematics and physics and all those things.