story of my approach to her father's family, and, whatever the result of that approach, she was entitled to read of it first-hand.
The next letter I wrote to Miss Harding was one dated November 2nd, Mr. Harding's birthday. His birthday fell one week to the day before mine, and he and I, though he was thirty years older, had always spoken of him as being just one week my senior. I wrote only to tell Miss Harding how "memories crowded each hour of the day," and made no allusion to Elizabeth Ann's matter except to tell her that I had heard nothing from the Votaws in answer to my lengthy letter to them.
Her answer was mailed under date of November 5th, 1925, and, aside from comments about the manner in which that particular birthday of her brother's had been commemorated in Marion, she wrote, "I realize, my dear, how hard your lot, and the tremendous burdens you must be carrying. Pay no attention to the attitude of sister and husband. The situation is a difficult one and will come out all right, I'm sure. In the meanwhile, remember you have my love and sympathy. . . ." Again she promised help, this time for Elizabeth Ann's clothes. And her expressions of solicitude for my own health, in cautioning me not to overwork in my playwriting course at Barnard, touched me deeply. "Lovingly yours, A. V. H. Lewis," her letter was signed.
How dear she was, I thought. No wonder I chose her when I was in high school as my ideal American woman, for she was a very great deal like her brother Warren, who would always be my ideal American man. Much like him in sympathies and instincts.
In the crowded three-room apartment where my mother, my baby and I were living, I was finding it all too difficult to devote as much quiet time to my course in playwriting as it required. It seemed to me far more desirable to retire early with
