This is the story: Two days after dear little grandmother was buried, I was told that the family solicitor would be at the house at three in the afternoon and that the will would be read, and I was expected to be present. So I put on one of the new black dresses that tell their own story, and when the time came I went down to the library. Uncle and auntie were there before me, and they introduced me to Mr. Lindsay, and then when the servants had come, he read grandmother’s will. She was a rich woman, of course, but I had not guessed how rich, and she gave bequests to Martha and James which would make it unnecessary for them to work any more, with substantial remembrances to the other servants, and a fine sum to the college her sons attended, and then all of the rest she divided between Uncle David and me. Only— Only I was not to have mine—except for a small annuity—unless I married according to Uncle David’s wishes. This, the will said, was not because of lack of affection for me or lack of confidence in me, but only because my early associations were such, and I was of such an impulsive nature, that I was in danger of doing something I would always regret. So she placed me lovingly in her son’s hands, and expected me to defer to his judgment in all things. Aunt Lorena looked down through all the reading of the will, and when it was all over I tried to take her hand, but she wouldn’t let me, and it was Semmy who took my hand and led me away to my room. I lay down on my lounge and thought and thought. I could hear the winter wind shouting through the pines, and outside the twilight was stormy and bleak. Semmy wanted to build up a fire and to bring me tea there in my room, but I did not want a fire and tea. There was only one thing in the world that I wanted then, and I knew perfectly well what it was. It was Keefe O’Connor. And it was on account of him that grandmother had made that will. She had seen that we cared for each other. She had not wanted me to marry him. I knew then as well as when Uncle David had told me, that she particularly objected to him—that is, that she particularly objected to having him marry me. Not that he ever really asked me to, or that we would marry for years and years. Yet—yet I know that is what she meant when she made that will. So now, Carin, I have learned my second great lesson this week. The first was, that there could not be life without death, and that if life is sweet, why so is death sweet too; and the second is that life cannot be sweet without liberty. Yes, I know it is an old, old truth, and that I ought to have known it long ago. But to read a thing, or even to say it, is very different from _realizing_ it.