Written for Short Stories 1899 Miss Alicia Pemberton came up the white pebbly walk, and her sister sitting on the low veranda put down her tatting' and looked up expectantly toward her. The slanting sun rays caught Miss Alicia's neatly mended silk gloves and rested squarely upon the white envelope she held. They touched more gently her withered, gentle face, as though in sympathy for her in their own going out of the day's life. There were pink and purple lights resting on the range of hills which stretched away to the right of the low cottage. The air was full of a peculiar softness, which seemed part of the settling down of evening. "The letter is for you, sister, and it is from Alan." Miss Alicia spoke with a nervous eagerness, and her hand trembled a little,