something entirely different; and two minutes later I found myself
alone outside of her room. And I hadn't told her.

But I wasn't even thinking of that. I was thinking of Eunice, and of
that round, childish scrawl of a diary upstairs in the attic trunk.
And I was picturing Eunice, in the years to come, writing _her_ diary;
and I thought, what if she should have to--

I went upstairs then and read that diary again. And all the while I
was reading I thought of Eunice. And when it was finished I knew that
I'd never tell Mother, that I'd never write to Jerry--not the letter
that I was going to write. I knew that--

* * * * *

They brought Jerry's letter to me at just that point. What a wonderful
letter that man can write--when he wants to!

He says he's lonesome and homesick, and that the house is like a tomb
without Eunice and me, and when _am_ I coming home?

* * * * *

I wrote him to-night that I was going--to-morrow.




THE END