You understand, Carin, grandmother was not taken from the house after the funeral. No, she was left lying up in that splendid room, and downstairs the funeral guests were given some refreshments—for most of them had come a long way, and many were old—and then, at midnight, the old servants carried the coffin to the great vault that stands in a grove near the house, and Uncle David and Aunt Lorena and Keefe and I followed, and she was laid away with others of her family, my father among the rest. There are cypress trees and hemlocks round about this vault, and they stood up black against the dark sky, swaying and crying. Not one of us spoke a word, and the only sound was the sobbing of the black people. I felt more like crying than I ever had before in my life—yes, I wanted to sob aloud and to call to grandmother to come back. Little sweet, proud, loving, laughing grandmother! But I kept very still. It seemed as if I could read Keefe’s thoughts and as if he were telling me to be quiet. So I said over and over to myself the last line of a lovely poem I read the other day. “‘O waters of quiet, go softly.’” After so long a life, one must be glad to rest. I found out that night, Carin, how that death, like life, is sweet and all in the course of things and nothing to be afraid of. Going back to the house I told Keefe that. “Life is our comrade,” he said, “but death is our mother, holding out kind hands to us when we are tired.” When he left me he—he kissed me, Carin. On the forehead. I shall always remember. I did not leave my room the next day. I wanted to think. Old Semmy stayed with me. But I did not mind her. I like old Semmy. She rocks to and fro like the trees and seems to be waiting to give comfort when comfort is needed. And that is like trees, too. After my little mama died I used to wrap my arms about the trees up there on the mountain-side and weep and weep, and they were very kind to me—those great chestnuts and hemlocks. But now I am thinking out many things. I couldn’t have written to anyone save you. But soon I shall write dear Mother McBirney and Annie Laurie. (I have, of course, sent them word.) Carin, tell me if you love me. _Azalea_. * * * * * Mallowbanks, January 30th. _Oh_, _Carin-girl_: Other troubles have come to me—things I never dreamed of. I don’t know how to meet them. They aren’t things like death, that just have to be accepted with courage. No, they are things I have to decide about. I have to make up my mind what is right and what is wrong. I never knew before that it could be hard to do that.