Shall I lose that which has been an ever shining, never setting
sun to me? Viola! If you love me you shall be my wife."

Viola bowed her head and shook it sadly, saying: "A power higher than
either you or I has decreed it otherwise."

"Who is he? Tell me who he is that dare separate us and I swear I will
kill him," cried Bernard in a frenzy of rage.

Viola looked up, her eyes swimming in tears, and said: "Would you kill
God?"

This question brought Bernard to his senses and he returned to his
seat and sat down suddenly. He then said: "Viola Martin, you are
making a fool of me. Tell me plainly why we cannot be man and wife, if
you love me as you say you do?"

"Bernard, call here to-morrow at 10 o'clock and I will tell you all.
If you can then remove my objections all will be well."

Bernard leaped up eager to get away, feeling that that would somewhat
hasten the time for him to return. Viola did not seem to share his
feelings of elation. But he did not mind that. He felt himself fully
able to demolish any and all objections that Viola could bring. He
went home and spent the day perusing his text-book on logic. He would
conjure up imaginary objections and would proceed to demolish them
in short order. He slept somewhat that night, anticipating a decisive
victory on the morrow.

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