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.