With the fragrance of ripening fruit, and the warmth of the brick wall about me,--September is September everywhere,--I sit here upon my own threshold, a worn old threshold made wise by the coming and going of life through unnumbered years. There is something comforting about a place where many lives have been lived; the windows have a strange air of wisdom, as if experience itself were looking out. I am tired, physically tired, with all the work, but I am well content with it: are you? All within is nearly finished. Your books, for your mother gave me many of them, are in a set of shelves I had made by the fireplace; my own in a low case that runs all across one side of the room. The window seats have chintz cushions; two easy chairs flank the fireplace; the old walnut table with reading lamp is placed where it can command either the flame of the hearth or the sunset flame: do you like all this, I wonder? In the little dining room a stately armchair stands ready for you always, as befits the master of the house, and your place at table shall be always set, the cover laid. So begins our divine housekeeping, you on your side, I on mine--alas!--of the universe and life and time. Last night I laid a scarf of yours, which I had been wearing, across your chair; Don sniffed at it and whimpered, then jumped up into the chair and whined piteously. No, do not be afraid! I shall not whine, even if my heart break. I shall come to you smiling, belovèd, and whatever wrinkles are on my face shall not be worn by tears. Everybody is _game_ in England now; I will be game too! There are no cowards among those who go to fight, or those who are left at home: my battlefield lies here. You need not think I am going to mourn in loneliness; I shall not let you go, though you are dead; I am going to live my life in and for you, and every least wish I ever heard you express shall be carried out. After dinner Don and I sat on the rug in front of the fire and talked about you; it is sorry comfort for both of us, but it is all we have. For him, as for me, I think, the sense of you comes more strongly in favoured nooks and corners, by the fire on the hearth, or by the living room windows in the sunshine. He knows you better than anybody else does, except me, and I sometimes feel,--at least, he remembers farther back than I can, and I am envious of him and of every one else who knew you first. He has chosen his permanent abiding-place, for he went close to the right side of the hearth, sat down, wagged his tail beseechingly, and held up one paw as he does when he is begging for things.