She turned from the window suddenly and went to the table where her writing-materials were kept. A sheet of note-paper lay ready on the blotter. It shone pink in the sunset light as she drew it toward her. Her hand trembled a little as she dipped the pen in the ink, but was firm when she wrote her letter. There were only a few lines, and of the most commonplace description. In the barest words she accounted for their sudden departure, made an apologetic allusion to their not having acquainted him with their intention of leaving, and ended with the words, "I hope we shall some day see you again." At the end of the letter she wrote the address, and upon this expended some care, forming the numbers with exactness, and inscribing the name of the street with slow clearness. She sealed the envelop with nervous haste, and was rising from her chair when the colonel entered. "Been writing letters?" he asked. The question was not an idle one, for letter-writing was seldom practised in that small family circle. Instinctively Viola placed her hand over the envelop as it lay on the table. "Yes," she said hurriedly, "just a note." "Whom to?" he asked. "Oh, I suppose your friend at the Woman's Exchange." This was a girl Viola had spoken of writing to anent the relinquishing of her work. Viola made no answer. The old man, who was lighting the lamp, did not appear to notice her silence. "Letter-writing's not much in my line," he said absently, "but your mother wrote beautiful letters." "Whom to?" said the girl, in her turn. "Me, when we were lovers." The lamp was lit, and he charily placed the globe on it. As he did so, Viola, from behind him, leaned forward and applied the letter, twisted into a spiral, to the chimney. It smoked, charred, and then went up in a flicker of flame. "What are you doing?" he asked, staring at her in surprise. "Burning my letter." "Why?" "I don't know. Perhaps because I don't write beautiful ones like my mother." Her voice trembled, broke, and she burst into wild tears. The door into the room beyond was open, and she ran through the aperture and shut the door behind her. The colonel stood looking after her, amazed, alarmed, uncomprehending. In the old days he would have followed her. Now he stood listening at the closed door, not daring even to knock. When he heard her sobbing cease he came tiptoeing away as though afraid of reawakening her drowsing grief. Standing by the table, he looked long and ruefully at the lamp-globe. "Poor little girl!" he whispered; "she's homesick, too."