"Perhaps I had another reason, too--the joy I take always in talking about him and in praising him and in telling how good he is. I hope he has been happy with me all these years, and I know I have been very happy with him. It may be very fanciful in me, but I like the idea that these words of mine praising him will be read after my death. If you love him, as I hope you do, with your whole heart and soul, you will understand why I have written this and you will forgive me. "Yours sincerely, "SARAH BLACKSTOCK." Before the young bride had read the half of this unexpected communication her eyes had filled with tears, and when she came to the end her face was wet. She stood silently in the center of the room where the minister had left her, and she held the open sheets of the letter in her hand. Then the front door was closed with a jar to be felt all over the house; and in a moment she had heard her husband's footsteps in the hall. "John!" she cried. When he came to the door she flung herself into his arms, sobbing helplessly. "Oh, John," she managed to say, at last. "Your first wife was an angel! I don't believe I can ever be as good as she was. But you will love me too--won't you, dear?" (1897) [Illustration: The Shortest Day in the Year] The snow was still falling steadily, although it had already thickly carpeted the avenue. It was a soft, gentle snow, sifting down calmly and clinging moistly to the bare branches of the feeble trees, which stood out starkly sheathed in white, spectral in the grayness of the late afternoon. Gangs of men were clearing the cross-paths at the corners and shoveling the sodden drifts into carts of various sizes, impressed into sudden service. It was not yet dusk, but the street-lamps had been lighted; and the tall hotel almost opposite was already illuminated here and there by squares of yellow. Elinor stood at the window of her aunt's house, gazing out, and yet not seeing the occasional carriages and the frequent automobiles that filled the broad avenue before her. The Christmas wreath that hung just over her head was scarcely more motionless than she was, as she stared straight before her, unconscious of anything but the deadness of her own outlook on life. She looked very handsome in her large hat and her black furs, which set off the pallor of her face, relieved by the deep eyes, now a little sunken, and with a dark line beneath them. She took no notice of the laborers as they stood aside to allow her aunt's comfortable carriage to draw up before the door. She did not observe the laughing children at an upper window of the house exactly opposite, highly excited at the vision of a huge Christmas tree which towered aloft in a cart before the door. She was waiting for Aunt Cordelia to take her to a tea, and then to a studio, where her portrait was to be shown to a few of her friends.