forming the numbers with exactness, and inscribing the name of the street with slow clearness. She sealed the envelop with nervous haste, and was rising from her chair when the colonel entered.
"Been writing letters?" he asked.
The question was not an idle one, for letter-writing was seldom practised in that small family circle.
Instinctively Viola placed her hand over the envelop as it lay on the table.
"Yes," she said hurriedly, "just a note."
"Whom to?" he asked. "Oh, I suppose your friend at the Woman's Exchange." This was a girl Viola had spoken of writing to anent the relinquishing of her work.
Viola made no answer. The old man, who was lighting the lamp, did not appear to notice her silence.
"Letter-writing 's not much in my line," he said absently, "but your mother wrote beautiful letters."
"Whom to?" said the girl, in her turn.
"Me, when we were lovers."
The lamp was lit, and he charily placed the globe on it. As he did so, Viola, from behind him, leaned forward and applied the letter, twisted into a spiral, to the chimney. It smoked, charred, and then went up in a flicker of flame.
