With a whimsical smile she thought of the times before when she had come to it for counsel, and the question half-formed itself on her lips: "What would _you_ do, you beautiful Grandmother Amanthis ?" Instantly there came into her mind the memory of a winter day when she had stood there in the firelight before it, stirred to the depths by the music this one of "the choir invisible" had made of her life, by her purpose to "ease the burden of the world"-- "to live in scorn of miserable aims that end with self." Now like an audible reply to her question the eyes of the portrait seemed to repeat that last sentence to her: "_To live in scorn of miserable aims that end with self!_" For a moment she stood irresolute, then dropping the lid on the rose-jar again, she crossed over into the next room and sat down beside the library table.

It was no easy task to write the note she had decided to send.

Five different times she got half-way through, tore the page in two and tossed it into the waste-basket.

Each attempt seemed so stiff and formal that she was disgusted with it.

Nearly an hour passed in the effort.