The time was shortening; the days were drawing near when she must report for work.... Her last year of work, perhaps.... The last year, maybe, of her screen career.
She wrote to the man who already had become the object paramount of her life:
“Dearest:—
“Your daily letters reassure me. You do me a great kindness in writing them. Long ago, before I knew what love was, your unvarying kindness won me. Always, to me, it remains the most wonderful thing in the world.
“We are not yet in full autumn here at Whitewater Farms. Few leaves have turned. Except for miles of golden-rod and purple asters on fallow and roadside, and acres of golden stubble, and the wine-red acres of reaped buckwheat, one would scarcely believe that summer had ended in these Northern hills.
“I went to-day to Whitewater Brook, where I encountered the first person connected with pictures I ever had seen. You will laugh. It was poor old Quiss.
“He was fishing. He didn’t possess much skill. He called me ‘sister’ and ‘girlie.’
“I clung to him as a cat clings to a back fence. I pleaded, I implored for his aid and advice.
“Poor old fellow, I always shall be grateful. I met Frank Donnell through him—dearest of my friends excepting you, Barry.