wrote
him one Letter, the other man, you know, and it caused a lot of trouble.
So she said--I remember the very words--

"Half the troubles in the world are caused by Letters. Emotions are
changable things"--this was after she had found that she really loved
her husband after all, but he had had to shoot himself before she found
it out, although not fataly--"but the written word does not change. It
remains always, embodying a dead truth and giving it apparent life. No
woman should ever put her thoughts on paper."

She got the Letter back, but she had to steal it. And it turned out that
the other man had really only wanted her money all the time.

That story was a real ilumination to me. I shall have a great deal of
money when I am of age, from my grandmother. I saw it all. It was a trap
sure enough. And if I was to get out I would have to have the letter.

IT WAS THE LETTER THAT PUT ME IN HIS POWER.

The next day was Xmas. I got a lot of things, including the necklace,
and a mending basket from Sis, with the hope that it would make me
tidey, and father had bought me a set of Silver Fox, which mother
did not approve of, it being too expencive for a young girl to wear,
according to her. I must say that for an hour or two I was happy enough.

But the afternoon was terrable. We keep open house on Xmas afternoon,
and father makes a champagne punch, and somebody pours tea, although
nobody drinks it, and there are little cakes from the Club, and the
house is decorated with poin--(Memo: Not in the Dictionery and I cannot
spell it, although not usualy troubled as to spelling.)

At eleven o'clock the mail came in, and mother sorted it over, while
father took a gold piece out to the post-man.

There were about a million cards, and mother glanced at the addresses
and passed them round. But suddenly she frowned. There was a small
parcel, addressed to me.

"This looks like a Gift, Barbara," she said. And proceded to open it.

My heart skipped two beats, and then hamered. Mother's mouth was set as
she tore off the paper and opened the box. There was a card, which she
glanced at, and underneath, was a book of poems.

"Love Lyrics," said mother, in a terrable voice. "To Barbara, from
H----"

"Mother----" I began, in an ernest tone.

"A child of mine recieving such a book from a man!" she went on.
"Barbara, I am speachless."

But she was not speachless. If she was speachless for the next half
hour, I would hate to hear h