"How often we have wondered where she got her lovely hair and eyes," she said slowly. "And how many times we fretted because mama watched her so, and seemed to humor her, where she never did us. I expect we have made mama unhappy lots of times by acting jealous that way." "Like as not," answered Kat remorsefully. "It's all dreadful, every bit of it. I'd give worlds if it had never happened." They all tried, by every way in their power, to win Ernestine back to something of her old self; but it seemed impossible. She spent hours and hours by herself, just sitting with her hands folded, looking out of the window with no sign of life or interest in her colorless face, and rarely speaking. Just brooding, brooding, and nursing her grief, until the doctor said she must go away, take a complete change, and then she would come back herself again. He accepted the lover-story, as indeed, most every one did, for surely the general behavior and symptoms were much the same, and then, besides, what _could_ the reason be if it wasn't that? Ernestine was perfectly indifferent about a visit anywhere. She was selfish in her grief, as in everything else, and took no interest in all their plans for her, expressing no satisfaction at the decision that Bea should go with her, and saying that she did not care when or where they went. One afternoon, Kittie went up stairs and found her writing something and crying bitterly over it. She so seldom cried, that Kittie was alarmed, but Ernestine said it was only because she was nervous; then put her writing away, and took her old, listless attitude in the chair by the window. That night Olive heard something; she was sure that she did, and started up in bed for a moment to listen, but everything was perfectly still, so in a moment she lay down again, but could not get to sleep until long after the whistle had blown for the midnight train that went through to the city. Next morning Ernestine did not come to breakfast, but it was nothing unusual, so Kittie fixed a tempting waiter and took it up stairs. In a few minutes she called "mama," in a frightened way, and Mrs. Dering instantly sprang up, followed by the girls, and ran up stairs. Since her sickness, Ernestine had slept alone, and Bea had gone over with Olive; so now, as they hurried in, they saw her untumbled bed, with just the slight pressure made where she had lain down, as though gone to bed for the night; everything else was unchanged. Mrs. Dering sank trembling into a chair, and pointed to a paper lying on the table. Olive reached it, and read aloud in a frightened, awe-struck voice: "DARLING MAMA: