She asked herself whether she had any duty toward others--duty which would make life worth living once more. She wished that there was something for her to do; but she saw nothing. She set her teeth and resolved that she would go through life, whatever it might bring, and master it for his sake, as he would have expected her to do. He was dead, and lying alone in that distant, lonely grave; and she would have to live on and on--but at least she would live as he would approve. But whatever her life might be, it would not be easy without him. She had lived on his letters; and she had taken a new breath of life every month when his violets came. And now nothing would come any more--no message, no little words of love, nothing to cheer her and to sustain her. Never before had she longed so much for a message from him--a line only--a single word of farewell. It was again the shortest day of the year, and it was to her the longest of all her life. But all the days would be long hereafter, and the nights would be long, and life would be long; and all would be empty, since he would never again be able to communicate with her. If only she believed in spiritualism, if only she could have even the dimmest hope that some day, somehow, some sort of communication might come to her from him, from the shadowy realm where he had gone, and where she could not go until the summons came to join him! So intent was she upon her own thoughts that she did not hear the ring of the door-bell; and a minute later she started when the butler entered the room with a small parcel in his hand. "What is it, Dexter?" she asked, mechanically. "This has just come for you, Miss," he answered, handing her the parcel. She held it without looking at it until Dexter had left the room. Probably it was a Christmas present from one of her friends; and she loosened the strings listlessly. It was a box from a florist; and she wondered who could have sent her any flowers on the day sacred to him. It might be Reggie, of course; but he had not done that for nearly a year now. She opened the box carelessly, and found a bunch of violets. There was a card with it. She took it nearer to the window, to read it in the fading light. It bore the single word, "Sweetheart." She stood for a moment, silent and trembling. "John!" she cried aloud. "From you!" She sank into a chair, with the violets pressed against her heart, sobbing; and the tears came at last, plentifully. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs; and in a moment more her aunt was standing at the door and calling: "Elinor, are you ready? We are late." (1910) THE END