When Bernard left Viola that morning, she threw herself prostrate on the floor, moaning and sobbing.  After a while she arose and went to the dining room door.  She looked in upon her mother, quietly sewing, and tried to say in a cheerful manner:  “Mamma, I shall be busy writing all day in my room.  Let no one disturb me.”  Her mother looked at her gently and lovingly and assured her that no one should disturb her.  Her mother surmised that all had not gone well with her and Bernard, and that Viola was wrestling with her grief.  Knowing that spats were common to young people in love she supposed it would soon be over.

Viola went upstairs and entered her room.  This room, thanks to Viola’s industry and exquisite taste, was the beauty spot of the whole house.  Pictures of her own painting adorned the walls, and scattered here and there in proper places were articles of fancy work put together in most lovely manner by her delicate fingers.  Viola was fond of flowers and her room was alive with the scent of pretty flowers and beautiful roses.  This room was a fitting scene for what was to follow.  She opened her tiny writing desk.  She wrote a letter to her father, one to her mother and one to Bernard.  Her letter to Bernard had to be torn up and re-written time and again, for fast falling tears spoiled it almost as fast as she wrote.  At last she succeeded in finishing his letter to her satisfaction.

At eventide she came down stairs and with her mother, sat on the rear porch and saw the sun glide gently out of sight, without a struggle, without a murmur.  Her eye lingered long on the spot where the sun had set and watched the hidden sun gradually steal all of his rays from the skies to use them in another world.  Drawing a heavy sigh, she lovingly caught her mother around the waist and led her into the parlor.  Viola now became all gayety, but her mother could see that it was forced.  She took a seat at the piano and played and sang.  Her rich soprano voice rang out clear and sweet and passers by paused to listen to the glorious strains.  Those who paused to hear her sing passed on feeling sad at heart.  Beginning in somewhat low tones, her voice gradually swelled and the full, round tones full of melody and pathos seemed to lift up and bear one irresistibly away.

Viola’s mother sat by and looked with tender solicitude on her daughter singing and playing as she had never before in her life.  “What did it mean?” she asked herself.  When Viola’s father came from the postoffice, where he was a clerk, Viola ran to him joyously.  She pulled him into the parlor and sat on his knee stroking his chin and nestling her head on his bosom.  She made him tell her tales as he did when she was a child and she would laugh, but her laugh did not have its accustomed clear, golden ring.

Kissing them good night, she started up to her bed room.  When at the head of the stairway she returned and without saying a word kissed her parents again.