ered his flowers that evening, Aunt Mary followed
him upstairs and locked the door of their room behind her. Silently she
put the letter in his hand. Here is one paragraph of it:

"I have never asked to take the child from you in the summer,
because she has always been in perfect health, and I know how lonely
you would have been without her, my dear Mary. But it seems to me
that a winter at Sutcliffe, with my girls, would do her a world of
good just now. I need not point out to you that Honora is, to say
the least, remarkably good looking, and that she has developed very
rapidly. And she has, in spite of the strict training you have
given her, certain ideas and ambitions which seem to me, I am sorry
to say, more or less prevalent among young American women these
days. You know it is only because I love her that I am so frank.
Miss Turner's influence will, in my opinion, do much to counteract
these tendencies."

Uncle Tom folded the letter, and handed it back to his wife.

"I feel that we ought not to refuse, Tom. And I am afraid Eleanor is
right."

"Well, Mary, we've had her for seventeen years. We ought to be willing
to spare her for--how many months?"

"Nine," said Aunt Mary, promptly. She had counted them. "And Eleanor
says she will be home for two weeks at Christmas. Seventeen years! It
seems only yesterday when we brought her home, Tom. It was just about
this time of day, and she was asleep in your arms, and Bridget opened
the door for us." Aunt Mary looked out of the window. "And do you
remember how she used to play under the maple there, with her dolls?"

Uncle Tom produced a very large handkerchief, and blew his nose.

"There, there, Mary," he said, "nine months, and two weeks out at
Christmas. Nine months in eighteen years."

"I suppose we ought to be very thankful," said Aunt Mary. "But, Tom, the
time is coming soon--"

"Tut tut," exclaimed Uncle Tom. He turned, and his eyes beheld a work of
art. Nothing less than a porcelain plate, hung in brackets on the wall,
decorated by Honora at the age of ten with wild roses, and presented
with much ceremony on an anniversary morning. He pretended not to notice
it, but Aunt Mary's eyes were too quick. She seized a photograph on her
bureau, a photograph of Honora in a little white frock with a red sash.

"It was the year that was taken, Tom."

He nodded. The scene at the breakfast table came back to him, and the
sight of C