She looked in upon her mother, quietly sewing, and tried to say in a cheerful manner: "Mamma, I shall be busy writing all day in my room.

Let no one disturb me." Her mother looked at her gently and lovingly and assured her that no one should disturb her.
Her mother surmised that all had not gone well with her and Bernard, and that Viola was wrestling with her grief.

Knowing that spats were common to young people in love she supposed it would soon be over.
Viola went upstairs and entered her room.

This room, thanks to Viola's industry and exquisite taste, was the beauty spot of the whole house.
Pictures of her own painting adorned the walls, and scattered here and there in proper places were articles of fancy work put together in most lovely manner by her delicate fingers.

Viola was fond of flowers and her room was alive with the scent of pretty flowers and beautiful roses.