“Hollis is to start next week on his first trip as a ’commercial traveller,’ and he is in agony at the thought of going and not knowing whether Helen will live or die.  I’ll finish this in the morning, because I know you are anxious to hear from us.

“In the morning.  I am all ready for school, with everything on but my gloves.  I don’t half know my geometry and I shall have to copy my composition in school.  It is as stupid as it can be; it is about the reign of Queen Anne.  There isn’t any heart in it, because all I care about is the present—­and the future.  I’ll send it to you as soon as it is returned corrected.  You will laugh at the mistakes and think, if you are too modest to say so, that you can do better.  I pity you if you can’t.  I shall stop on the way to inquire about Helen, and I am afraid to, too.

“School, Noon Recess.  I met Hollis on the walk as I stood in front of Helen’s—­there was no need to ask.  Black and white ribbon was streaming from the bell handle.  I have permission to go home.  I have cried all the morning.  I hope I shall find Miss Prudence there.  She must be so tired and worn out.  Hollis looked like a ghost and his voice shook so he could scarcely speak.

“With ever so much love to all,

“YOUR SISTER LINNET.

“P.  S. Hollis said he would not write this week and wants you to tell his mother all about it.”

* * * * *

The next letter is dated in the early part of the following month.

“In my Den, Dec. 10, 18—­,

“MY FRIEND PRUDENCE: 

“My heart was with you, as you well know, all those days and nights in that sick chamber that proved to be the entrance to Heaven.  She smiled and spoke, lay quiet for awhile with her eyes closed, and awoke in the presence of the Lord.  May you and I depart as easily, as fearlessly.  I cannot grieve as you do; how much she is saved!  To-night I have been thinking over your life, and a woman’s lot seems hard.  To love so much, to suffer so much.  You see I am desponding; I am often desponding.  You must write to me and cheer me up.  I am disappointed in myself.  Oh how different this monotonous life from the life I planned!  I dig and delve and my joy comes in my work.  If it did not, where would it come in, pray?  I am a joyless fellow at best.  There!  I will not write another word until I can give you a word of cheer.  Why don’t you toss me overboard?  Your life is full of cheer and hard work; but I cannot be like you.  Marjorie and Morris were busy at the dining-room table when I left them, with their heads together over my old Euclid.  We are giving them a lift up into the sunshine and that is something.  What do you want to send Marjorie to school for?  What can school do for her when I give her up to you?  Give yourself to her and keep her out of school.  The child is not always happy.  Last communion Sunday she sat next to me; she was crying softly all