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Your sad little note3 came to me nearly a week ago. I have thought a great deal about you since it came, and have been hoping that when you got home you found things peaceful and painless, even if they were inevitable. When my father4 died I had been in New York2 only a week from the day that I had said good-bye to him at home. I reached the little town5 again about three o'clock in the morning. Friends met me and took me in their car to the door. All the family were asleep, the door open. I went up to Father's room without waking anyone. He was lying on a coach in the bay window. I had several unforgettable hours with him before anyone in the house awoke. When the red dawn broke it flushed his face with the rosy color which he always had, and he looked so entirely himself and so happy. I often think that, really, death must be a very happy thing, whether it is followed by consciousness or unconsciousness.
I am wandering about trying to say something to you in an indirect way. Those things cannot be said directly. But I am thinking of you with all the warmth of an old friendship, and some day I feel sure that I can make you understand why it was that I could not see much of you, or anybody else, this winter.
Willa