In contrast to the traffic of the day the stillness of the Avenue was puzzling.  Only the whir of an automobile or the occasional hoofbeats of a cab-horse broke the silence, and hardly less dark than the tenements just passed were its handsome houses, with their closed shutters and drawn curtains, and the restless occupants therein.  As he reached the Park he stopped, hesitated, and lighted a fresh cigar.  Three squares away was his sister’s house, and in it was the girl with the fresh, clear voice.  He took the note she had sent him out of his pocket, and in the light hanging just above him looked again at the firm, clear writing, then put it back.  Did she, too, wonder at life, at its emptiness and aimlessness?  Her voice did not sound as if she were tired of it or found it wearisome.  It sounded like a very happy voice.

At his door he turned the latch-key, and for a moment—­a bare moment—­drew back; then, with a shiver, he opened the door and went inside.

Moses was waiting.  “Miss Dorothea she called me up, sir, and told me to be sure and give you this letter to-night.  She slip out of bed to telephone when that French white lady was out the room, she say.  She had her Ma send it by messenger, and she was so ’fraid you wouldn’t get it to-night she couldn’t sleep.  She sent a peck of love.”

Laine took the letter and went to his room.  Dorothea was given to letters, and if his absence was unduly long a communication to that effect was promptly received.  He had seen her last night, however.  What was she wanting now?  Breaking the seal, he read the sprawly writing with narrowed eyes, then read again, that he might miss no word.

Dear uncle Winthrop,—­Moses telefoned us and Channing and I have just cried and cried and cried.  But I won’t even call his name if you will only come and let me kiss you so you will know.  We wanted to send you some flowers but Claudia said our love was best.  She is so sorry too.  She had one and it died last spring.  I had a headake to-day.  It came from my heart because of you and she made it go away.  I think she could make most any kind of pain go away.  And her hands are not red and her hair is brown and her lashes are brown too, and long and lovely.  I don’t know the color of her eyes.  I think they are glad color.  I love her!  I knew I would.

  Your devoted niece, Dorothea.

P. S.—­I told her you didn’t like young ladies and she said she didn’t like old gentlemen, except a few.  Please, P-L-E-A-S-E come and see me—­and you can come in the nursery if you don’t want to see her.  She knows.

  Your loving niece,
    Dorothea.

P. S. Again.—­You ought to hear her laugh.  Its delishus.