It was twelve before Viola slept, and after she did, I put out the light, and tiptoed down to Leslie’s room.
I found Leslie sitting up by her table, writing, and I couldn’t help seeing an envelope on it that was addressed to Ben Forbes.
She saw that I saw it, and she spoke.
“Jane,” she said, “I’ve been a perfect fool. . . . I’ve always hated any one who belittled my importance or anything about me. . . . When Viola did—you know how it was—” (She drew her pretty pink, quilted dressing gown closer around her, and went on) “and I imagine the reason I haven’t been wild over Aunt Sheila was because I felt she didn’t worship. . . And you know I wanted to punish Ben Forbes—because he told me the truth. . . . I’m writing him—” she shoved the sheet of paper on which she had been writing toward me—“because, after he had hurt me, with truth, I told him that what he said made no difference to me, that I considered him rather uncouth, and that I had written him only from kindness, and the fact that I felt he was rather shut off out there in the wilds—and—lots more! Well, to get through with this, this afternoon and to-night some things have been driven home to me by Viola’s losing her own father after she had hurt him. . . . She’ll have to remember now—all her life—how she had hurt him just before he died. They say”—Leslie groped for a handkerchief, and mopped her tears frankly—“they say that all sorts of accidents happen on—on r-ranches—”
And then she covered her face and sobbed.
I moved around the table to stand by her and put my arm around her, and then she spoke.
“Read—it,” she said, with a big sob between the two words, and I did.
“Dear Ben:” she had written.
“All my life I have been conceited; you must know it now. I do—which is a miracle—and I’m writing to-night to say that the truth you told me helped me and is helping me. I am working hard; I hope I am less a fool.
“With gratitude,
“Your old neighbor and friend,
“Leslie Parrish.”