This is not the end, Steve, dear. There is no end—just a little rest between the acts for such old actors in life’s drama as your dad. Later, you and Jim will join us behind the scenes—my wife and I—and we shall see what we shall see!—my little girl!—my darling. DAD. The boy and the girl sat up late in the library that night discussing the two letters which so profoundly concerned them. Indeed, the old order of things was about to pass away before their dismayed and saddened eyes—eyes not yet accustomed to the burning grief which dimmed them—hearts not yet strengthened for the first heavy responsibilities which they had ever borne. "I can’t bear to leave you, Steve," said the boy, striving to steady his voice. "What are you going to do about college?" "Well—I—I’ll go back to college and finish the term. Dad wanted it." Neither dreamed of disobeying the desires expressed in the two letters. "Will you finish college?" he asked. "I don’t know. I want to do what dad wished me to do.... I wonder what a course in hospital training is like?" "Down there at Bayport?" "Yes.... After all, that is accomplishing something. And I like children, Jim." "They’re defective children down there." "Poor little lambs! I—I believe I could do some good—accomplish something. But do you know, Jim, it almost frightens me when I remember that you will be away two years——" She began to weep, lying there in her big chair with her black-edged handkerchief pressed against her face. "I wish I could take you to Europe, Steve," he said huskily. She dried her eyes leisurely. "Couldn’t you? No, you couldn’t, of course. Dad would have said so if it was what he wanted. Well—then I’ll finish the term at Vassar. You won’t go before Easter?" "No, I’ll be here, Steve. We’ll see each other then, anyway.... Do you think you’ll get along with your aunt?" "I don’t know," said the girl. "She means to be kind, I suppose. But dad spoiled me. Oh, Jim! I’m—I’m too unhappy to c-care what becomes of me now. I’ll finish the term and then I’ll go and learn how to nurse sick little defective children while you’re away——" her voice broke again. "I wish you wouldn’t cry," said the boy;—"I’m—I can’t stand it——" "Oh, forgive me!" She sprang up and flung herself on the rug beside his chair. "I’m sorry! I’m selfish. I’ll do everything dad wished, cheerfully. You’ll go abroad and educate yourself by travel, and I’ll learn a profession. And some day I’ll find out what I really am fitted to do, and then I’ll go abroad and study, too." "You’ll be twenty, then, Steve—just the age to know what you really want to do." She nodded, listlessly, kneeling there beside his chair, her cheek resting on her clasped hands, her grey eyes fixed on the dying coals. After a long silence she said: "Jim, I really don’t know what I want to do in life. I am not certain that I want to do anything." "What? Not the stage?"