initial commit of ebook 17938HEADmain

13 files changed, 40551 insertions, 0 deletions

diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6833f05
--- /dev/null
+++ b/.gitattributes
@@ -0,0 +1,3 @@
+* text=auto
+*.txt text
+*.md text
diff --git a/17938-8.txt b/17938-8.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..3f9020d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-8.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11516 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Contrary Mary, by Temple Bailey, Illustrated
+by Charles S. Corson
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Contrary Mary
+
+
+Author: Temple Bailey
+
+
+
+Release Date: March 6, 2006  [eBook #17938]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Al Haines
+
+
+
+Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
+      file which includes the original illustrations.
+      See 17938-h.htm or 17938-h.zip:
+      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938/17938-h/17938-h.htm)
+      or
+      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938/17938-h.zip)
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTRARY MARY
+
+by
+
+TEMPLE BAILEY
+
+Author of
+Glory of Youth
+
+Illustrations by Charles S. Corson
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Frontispiece: She flashed a quick glance at him.]
+
+
+
+
+New York
+Grosset & Dunlap
+Publishers
+Copyright
+1914 by
+The Penn Publishing Company
+  First printing, December, 1914
+  Second printing, February, 1915
+  Third printing, March, 1915
+  Fourth printing, March, 1915
+  Fifth printing, April, 1915
+  Sixth printing, July, 1915
+  Seventh printing, November, 1915
+
+
+
+
+To My Sister
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face with Old Friends.
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason
+for Renting a Gentleman's Library.
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of this Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances with the Rest.
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets that There is Any One Else in the House.
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice; and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part.
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms, and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads.
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and is
+Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon the
+Stairs.
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place; and
+in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone.
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress;
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way.
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower.
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book.
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens; and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+In Which Mary Writes from the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+from Among the Pines.
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which a
+March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For; and
+in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World; and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes, and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary.
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreamt.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life, and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight.
+
+
+
+
+Illustrations
+
+
+She flashed a quick glance at him . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
+
+"What have I done?"
+
+"You don't know what you are doing."
+
+"Again I question your right."
+
+
+
+
+Contrary Mary
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+_In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face With Old Friends._
+
+
+The big house, standing on a high hill which overlooked the city,
+showed in the moonlight the grotesque outlines of a composite
+architecture.  Originally it had been a square substantial edifice of
+Colonial simplicity.  A later and less restrained taste had aimed at a
+castellated effect, and certain peaks and turrets had been added.
+Three of these turrets were excrescences stuck on, evidently, with an
+idea of adornment.  The fourth tower, however, rounded out and enlarged
+a room on the third floor.  This room was one of a suite, and the rooms
+were known as the Tower Rooms, and were held by those who had occupied
+them to be the most desirable in the barn-like building.
+
+To-night the house had taken on an unwonted aspect of festivity.  Its
+spaciousness was checkered by golden-lighted windows.  Delivery wagons
+and automobiles came and went, some discharging loads of deliciousness
+at the back door, others discharging loads of loveliness at the front.
+
+Following in the wake of one of the front door loads of fluttering
+femininity came a somewhat somber pedestrian.  His steps lagged a
+little, so that when the big door opened, he was still at the foot of
+the terrace which led up to it.  He waited until the door was shut
+before he again advanced.  In the glimpse that he thus had of the
+interior, he was aware of a sort of pink effulgence, and in that
+shining light, lapped by it, and borne up, as it were, by it toward the
+wide stairway, he saw slender girls in faint-hued frocks--a shimmering
+celestial company.
+
+As he reached the top of the terrace the door again flew open, and he
+gave a somewhat hesitating reason for his intrusion.
+
+"I was told to ask for Miss Ballard--Miss Mary Ballard."
+
+It seemed that he was expected, and that the guardian of the doorway
+understood the difference between his business and that of the
+celestial beings who had preceded him.
+
+He was shown into a small room at the left of the entrance.  It was
+somewhat bare, with a few law books and a big old-fashioned desk.  He
+judged that the room might have been put to office uses, but to-night
+the desk was heaped with open boxes, and odd pieces of furniture were
+crowded together, so that there was left only a small oasis of cleared
+space.  On the one chair in this oasis, the somber gentleman seated
+himself.
+
+He had a fancy, as he sat there waiting, that neither he nor this room
+were in accord with the things that were going on in the big house.
+Outside of the closed door the radiant guests were still ascending the
+stairway on shining wings of light.  He could hear the music of their
+laughter, and the deeper note of men's voices, rising and growing
+fainter in a sort of transcendent harmony.
+
+When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut
+quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she
+turned to him.
+
+"Oh, you must forgive me--I've kept you waiting?"
+
+If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her
+at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of
+Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that.  But,
+being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that
+here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the
+stairs.  Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of
+pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show
+womanliness and warm blood.
+
+Even her dress was different.  It was simple almost to the point of
+plainness.  Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the
+inside of a shell.  Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet
+in low-heeled slippers.  A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the
+waves of thick fair hair.  Her eyes were like the sea in a storm--deep
+gray with a glint of green.
+
+These things did not come to him at once.  He was to observe them as
+she made her explanation, and as he followed her to the Tower Rooms.
+But first he had to set himself straight with her, so he said: "I was
+sorry to interrupt you.  But you said--seven?"
+
+"Yes.  It was the only time that the rooms could be seen.  My sister
+and I occupy them--and Constance is to be married--to-night."
+
+This, then, was the reason for the effulgence and the silken ladies.
+It was the reason, too, for the loveliness of her dress.
+
+"I am going to take you this way."  She preceded him through a narrow
+passage to a flight of steps leading up into the darkness.  "These
+stairs are not often used, but we shall escape the crowds in the other
+hall."
+
+Her voice was lost as she made an abrupt turn, but, feeling his way, he
+followed her.
+
+Up and up until they came to a third-floor landing, where she stopped
+him to say, "I must be sure no one is here.  Will you wait until I see?"
+
+She came back, presently, to announce that the coast was clear, and
+thus they entered the room which had been enlarged and rounded out by
+the fourth tower.
+
+It was a big room, ceiled and finished in dark oak, The furniture was
+roomy and comfortable and of worn red leather.  A strong square table
+held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade.  There was a fireplace,
+and on the mantel above it a bust or two.
+
+But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger
+Poole.
+
+Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth
+and fine leather--the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.
+As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living,
+breathing collection of a true book-lover--not a musty, fusty
+aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect.  The
+owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.
+
+"This is the sitting-room," his guide was telling him, "and the bedroom
+and bath open out from it."  She had opened a connecting door.  "This
+room is awfully torn up.  But we have just finished dressing Constance.
+She is down-stairs now in the Sanctum.  We'll pack her trunks to-morrow
+and send them, and then if you should care to take the rooms, we can
+put back the bedroom furniture that father had.  He used this suite,
+and brought his books up after mother died."
+
+He halted on the threshold of that inner room.  If the old house below
+had seemed filled with rosy effulgence, this was the heart of the rose.
+Two small white beds were side by side in an alcove.  Their covers were
+of pink overlaid with lace, and the chintz of the big couch and chairs
+reflected the same enchanting hue.  With all the color, however, there
+was the freshness of simplicity.  Two tall glass candlesticks on the
+dressing table, a few photographs in silver and ivory frames--these
+were the only ornaments.
+
+Yet everywhere was lovely confusion--delicate things were thrown
+half-way into open trunks, filmy fabrics floated from unexpected
+places, small slippers were held by receptacles never designed for
+shoes, radiant hats bloomed in boxes.
+
+On a chair lay a bridesmaid's bunch of roses.  This bunch Mary Ballard
+picked up as she passed, and it was over the top of it that she asked,
+with some diffidence, "Do you think you'd care to take the rooms?"
+
+Did he?  Did the Peri outside the gates yearn to enter?  Here within
+his reach was that from which he had been cut off for five years.  Five
+years in boarding-houses and cheap hotels, and now the chance to live
+again--as he had once lived!
+
+"I do want them--awfully--but the price named in your letter seems
+ridiculously small----"
+
+"But you see it is all I shall need," she was as blissfully
+unbusinesslike as he.  "I want to add a certain amount to my income, so
+I ask you to pay that," she smiled, and with increasing diffidence
+demanded, "Could you make up your mind--now?  It is important that I
+should know--to-night."
+
+She saw the question in his eyes and answered it, "You see--my family
+have no idea that I am doing this.  If they knew, they wouldn't want me
+to rent the rooms--but the house is mine---I shall do as I please."
+
+She seemed to fling it at him, defiantly.
+
+"And you want me to be accessory to your--crime."
+
+She gave him a startled glance.  "Oh, do you look at it--that way?
+Please don't.  Not if you like them."
+
+For a moment, only, he wavered.  There was something distinctly unusual
+in acquiring a vine and fig tree in this fashion.  But then her
+advertisement had been unusual--it was that which had attracted him,
+and had piqued his interest so that he had answered it.
+
+And the books!  As he looked back into the big room, the rows of
+volumes seemed to smile at him with the faces of old friends.
+
+Lonely, longing for a haven after the storms which had beaten him, what
+better could he find than this?
+
+As for the family of Mary Ballard, what had he to do with it?  His
+business was with Mary Ballard herself, with her frank laugh and her
+friendliness--and her arms full of roses!
+
+"I like them so much that I shall consider myself most fortunate to get
+them."
+
+"Oh, really?"  She hesitated and held out her hand to him.  "You don't
+know how you have helped me out--you don't know how you have helped
+me----"
+
+Again she saw a question in his eyes, but this time she did not answer
+it.  She turned and went into the other room, drawing back the curtains
+of the deep windows of the round tower.
+
+"I haven't shown you the best of all," she said.  Beneath them lay the
+lovely city, starred with its golden lights.  From east to west the
+shadowy dimness of the Mall, beyond the shadows, a line of river,
+silver under the moonlight.  A clock tower or two showed yellow faces;
+the great public buildings were clear-cut like cardboard.
+
+Roger drew a deep breath.  "If there were nothing else," he said, "I
+should take the rooms for this."
+
+And now from the lower hall came the clamor of voices.
+
+"_Mary!  Mary!_"
+
+"I must not keep you," he said at once.
+
+"_Mary!_"
+
+Poised for flight, she asked, "Can you find your way down alone?  I'll
+go by the front stairs and head them off."
+
+"_Mary----!_"
+
+With a last flashing glance she was gone, and as he groped his way down
+through the darkness, it came to him as an amazing revelation that she
+had taken his coming as a thing to be thankful for, and it had been so
+many years since a door had been flung wide to welcome him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+_In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason for
+Renting a Gentleman's Library._
+
+
+In spite of the fact that Mary Ballard had seemed to Roger Poole like a
+white-winged angel, she was not looked upon by the family as a beauty.
+It was Constance who was the "pretty one," and tonight as she stood in
+her bridal robes, gazing up at her sister who was descending the stairs,
+she was more than pretty.  Her tender face was illumined by an inner
+radiance.  She was two years older than Mary, but more slender, and her
+coloring was more strongly emphasized.  Her eyes were blue and her hair
+was gold, as against the gray-green and dull fairness of Mary's hair.
+She seemed surrounded, too, by a sort of feminine _aura_, so that one
+knew at a glance that here was a woman who would love her home, her
+husband, her children; who would lean upon masculine protection, and
+suffer from masculine neglect.
+
+Of Mary Ballard these things could not be said at once.  In spite of her
+simplicity and frankness, there was about her a baffling atmosphere.  She
+was like a still pool with the depths as yet unsounded, an uncharted
+sea--with its mystery of undiscovered countries.
+
+The contrast between the sisters had never been more marked than when
+Mary, leaning over the stair-rail, answered the breathless, "Dearest,
+where have you been?" with her calm:
+
+"There's plenty of time, Constance."
+
+And Constance, soothed as always by her sister's tranquillity, repeated
+Mary's words for the benefit of a ponderously anxious Personage in amber
+satin.
+
+"There's plenty of time, Aunt Frances."
+
+That Aunt Frances _was_ a Personage was made apparent by certain exterior
+evidences.  One knew it by the set of her fine shoulders, the carriage of
+her head, by the diamond-studded lorgnette, by the string of pearls about
+her neck, by the osprey in her white hair, by the golden buckles on her
+shoes.
+
+"It is five minutes to eight," said Aunt Frances, "and Gordon is waiting
+down-stairs with his best man, the chorus is freezing on the side porch,
+and _everybody_ has arrived.  I don't see _why_ you are waiting----"
+
+"We are waiting for it to be eight o'clock, Aunt Frances," said Mary.
+"At just eight, I start down in front of Constance, and if you don't
+hurry you and Aunt Isabelle won't be there ahead of me."
+
+The amber train slipped and glimmered down the polished steps, and the
+golden buckles gleamed as Mrs. Clendenning, panting a little and with a
+sense of outrage that her nervous anxiety of the preceding moment had
+been for naught, made her way to the drawing-room, where the guests were
+assembled.
+
+Aunt Isabelle followed, gently smiling.  Aunt Isabelle was to Aunt
+Frances as moonlight unto sunlight.  Aunt Frances was married, Aunt
+Isabelle was single; Aunt Frances wore amber, Aunt Isabelle silver gray;
+Aunt Frances held up her head like a queen, Aunt Isabelle dropped hers
+deprecatingly; Aunt Frances' quick ears caught the whispers of admiration
+that followed her, Aunt Isabelle's ears were closed forever to all the
+music of the universe.
+
+No sooner had the two aunts taken their places to the left of a floral
+bower than there was heard without the chanted wedding chorus, from a
+side door stepped the clergyman and the bridegroom and his best man; then
+from the hall came the little procession with Mary in the lead and
+Constance leaning on the arm of her brother Barry.
+
+They were much alike, this brother and sister.  More alike than Mary and
+Constance.  Barry had the same gold in his hair, and blue in his eyes,
+and, while one dared not hint it, in the face of his broad-shouldered
+strength, there was an almost feminine charm in the grace of his manner
+and the languor of his movements.
+
+There were no bridesmaids, except Mary, but four pretty girls held the
+broad white ribbons which marked an aisle down the length of the rooms.
+These girls wore pink with close caps of old lace.  Only one of them had
+dark hair, and it was the dark-haired one, who, standing very still
+throughout the ceremony, with the ribbon caught up to her in lustrous
+festoons, never took her eyes from Barry Ballard's face.
+
+And when, after the ceremony, the bride turned to greet her friends, the
+dark-haired girl moved forward to where Barry stood, a little apart from
+the wedding group.
+
+"Doesn't it seem strange?" she said to him with quick-drawn breath.
+
+He smiled down at her.  "What?"
+
+"That a few words should make such a difference?"
+
+"Yes.  A minute ago she belonged to us.  Now she's Gordon's."
+
+"And he's taking her to England?"
+
+"Yes.  But not for long.  When he gets the branch office started over
+there, they'll come back, and he'll take his father's place in the
+business here, and let the old man retire."
+
+She was not listening.  "Barry," she interrupted, "what will Mary do?
+She can't live here alone--and she'll miss Constance."
+
+"Oh, Aunt Frances has fixed that," easily; "she wants Mary to shut up the
+house and spend the winter in Nice with herself and Grace--it's a great
+chance for Mary."
+
+"But what about you, Barry?"
+
+"Me?" He shrugged his shoulders and again smiled down at her.  "I'll find
+quarters somewhere, and when I get too lonesome, I'll come over and talk
+to you, Leila."
+
+The rich color flooded her cheeks.  "Do come," she said, again with
+quick-drawn breath, then like a child who has secured its coveted
+sugar-plum, she slipped through the crowd, and down into the dining-room,
+where she found Mary taking a last survey.
+
+"Hasn't Aunt Frances done things beautifully?" Mary asked; "she insisted
+on it, Leila.  We could never have afforded the orchids and the roses;
+and the ices are charming--pink hearts with cupids shooting at them with
+silver arrows----"
+
+"Oh, Mary," the dark-haired girl laid her flushed cheek against the arm
+of her taller friend.  "I think weddings are wonderful."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "I don't," she said after a moment's silence.  "I
+think they're horrid.  I like Gordon Richardson well enough, except when
+I think that he is stealing Constance, and then I hate him."
+
+But the bride was coming down, with all the murmuring voices behind her,
+and now the silken ladies were descending the stairs to the dining-room,
+which took up the whole lower west wing of the house and opened out upon
+an old-fashioned garden, which to-night, under a chill October moon,
+showed its rows of box and of formal cedars like sharp shadows against
+the whiteness.
+
+Into this garden came, later, Mary.  And behind her Susan Jenks.
+
+Susan Jenks was a little woman with gray hair and a coffee-colored skin.
+Being neither black nor white, she partook somewhat of the nature of both
+races.  Back of her African gentleness was an almost Yankee shrewdness,
+and the firm will which now and then degenerated into obstinacy.
+
+"There ain't no luck in a wedding without rice, Miss Mary.  These paper
+rose-leaf things that you've got in the bags are mighty pretty, but how
+are you going to know that they bring good luck?"
+
+"Aunt Frances thought they would be charming and foreign, Susan, and they
+look very real, floating off in the air.  You must stand there on the
+upper porch, and give the little bags to the guests."
+
+Susan ascended the terrace steps complainingly.  "You go right in out of
+the night, Miss Mary," she called back, "an' you with nothin' on your
+bare neck!"
+
+Mary, turning, came face to face with Gordon's best man, Porter Bigelow.
+
+"Mary," he said, impetuously, "I've been looking for you everywhere.  I
+couldn't keep my eyes off you during the service--you were--heavenly."
+
+"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
+out here.  I had to show Susan about the confetti."
+
+He drew her in and shut the door.  "They sent me to hunt for you," he
+said.  "Constance wants you.  She's going up-stairs to change.  But I
+heard just now that you are going to Nice.  Leila told me.  Mary--you
+can't go--not so far away--from me."
+
+His hand was on her arm.
+
+She shook it off with a little laugh.
+
+"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter.  And I'm not going--to Nice."
+
+"But Leila said----"
+
+Her head went up.  It was a characteristic gesture.  "It doesn't make any
+difference what _any one_ says.  I'm not going to Nice."
+
+Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
+time.  Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand.  Aunt Frances,
+arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests.  Only Aunt
+Isabelle was allowed to remain.  She could be of use, and the things
+which were to be said she could not hear.
+
+"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
+selfish--leaving you----"
+
+Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks.  "Don't worry, Con.
+I'll get along."
+
+"But you'll have to bear--things--all alone.  It isn't as if any one
+knew, and you could talk it out."
+
+"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
+anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."
+
+"Oh, Mary, he won't."
+
+"Oh, yes, he will, and you'll want him to--you'll want to turn your heart
+inside out for him to read, to say nothing of your letters."
+
+She stood up and put both of her hands on her sister's shoulders.  "But
+you mustn't tell him, Con.  No matter how much you want to, it's my
+secret and Barry's--promise me, Con----"
+
+"But, Mary, a wife can't."
+
+"Yes, she _can_ have secrets from her husband.  And this belongs to us,
+not to him.  You've married him, Con, but we haven't."
+
+Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
+could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
+time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
+sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.
+
+Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward.  "My dear," she asked, in her thin
+troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"
+
+"It's nothing, Aunt Isabelle."  Mary's tone was not loud, but Aunt
+Isabelle heard and nodded.
+
+"She's dead tired, poor dear, and wrought up.  I'll run and get the
+aromatic spirits."
+
+With Aunt Isabella out of the way, Mary set herself to repair the damage
+she had done.  "I've made you cry on your wedding day, Con, and I wanted
+you to be so happy.  Oh, tell Gordon, if you must.  But you'll find that
+he won't look at it as you and I have looked at it.  He won't make the
+excuses."
+
+"Oh, yes he will."  Constance's happiness seemed to come back to her
+suddenly in a flood of assurance.  "He's the best man in the world, Mary,
+and so kind.  It's because you don't know him that you think as you do."
+
+Mary could not quench the trust in the blue eyes.  "Of course he's good,"
+she said, "and you are going to be the happiest ever, Constance."
+
+Then Aunt Isabelle came back and found that the need for the aromatic
+spirits was over, and together the loving hands hurried Constance into
+her going away gown of dull blue and silver, with its sable trimmed wrap
+and hat.
+
+"If it hadn't been for Aunt Frances, how could I have faced Gordon's
+friends in London?" said Constance.  "Am I all right now, Mary?"
+
+"Lovely, Con, dear."
+
+But it was Aunt Isabelle's hushed voice which gave the appropriate
+phrase.  "She looks like a bluebird--for happiness."
+
+At the foot of the stairway Gordon was waiting for his bride--handsome
+and prosperous as a bridegroom should be, with a dark sleek head and
+eager eyes, and beside him Porter Bigelow, topping him by a head, and a
+red head at that.
+
+As Mary followed Constance, Porter tucked her hand under his arm.
+
+
+  "Oh, Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
+  Your eyes they are so bright,
+  That the stars grow pale, as they tell the tale
+  To the other stars at night,"
+
+he improvised under his breath.  "Oh, Mary Ballard, do you know that I am
+holding on to myself with all my might to keep from shouting to the
+crowd, 'Mary isn't going away.  Mary isn't going away.'"
+
+"Silly----"
+
+"You say that, but you don't mean it.  Mary, you can't be hard-hearted on
+such a night as this.  Say that I may stay for five minutes--ten--after
+the others have gone----"
+
+They were out on the porch now, and he had folded about her the wrap
+which she had brought down with her.  "Of course you may stay," she said,
+"but much good may it do you.  Aunt Frances is staying and General
+Dick--there's to be a family conclave in the Sanctum--but if you want to
+listen you may."
+
+And how the rose-leaves began to flutter!  Susan Jenks had handed out the
+bags, and secretly, and with much elation had leaned over the rail as
+Constance passed down the steps, and had emptied her own little offering
+of rice in the middle of the bride's blue hat!
+
+It was Barry, aided and abetted by Leila, who brought out the old
+slippers.  There were Constance's dancing slippers, high-heeled and of
+delicate hues, Mary's more individual low-heeled ones, Barry's outworn
+pumps, decorated hurriedly by Leila for the occasion with lovers' knots
+of tissue paper.
+
+And it was just as the bride waved "Good-bye" from Gordon's limousine
+that a new slipper followed the old ones, for Leila, carried away by the
+excitement, and having at the moment no other missile at hand, reached
+down, and plucking off one of her own pink sandals, hurled it with all
+her might at the moving car.  It landed on top, and Leila, with a gasp,
+realized that it was gone forever.
+
+"It serves you right."  Looking up, she met Barry's laughing eyes.
+
+She sank down on the step.  "And they were a new pair!"
+
+"Lucky that it's your birthday next week," he said.  "Do you want pink
+ones?'"
+
+"_Barry!_"
+
+Her delight was overwhelming.  "Heavens, child," he condoned her, "don't
+look as if I were the grand Mogul.  Do you know I sometimes think you are
+eight instead of eighteen?  And now, if you'll take my arm, you can
+hippity-hop into the house.  And I hope that you'll remember this, that
+if I give you pink slippers you are not to throw them away."
+
+In the hall they met Leila's father--General Wilfred Dick.  The General
+had married, in late bachelorhood, a young wife.  Leila was like her
+mother in her dark sparkling beauty and demure sweetness.  But she showed
+at times the spirit of her father--the spirit which had carried the
+General gallantly through the Civil War, and had led him after the war to
+make a success of the practice of law.  He had been for years the
+intimate friend and adviser of the Ballards, and it was at Mary's request
+that he was to stay to share in the coming conclave.
+
+He told Leila this.  "You'll have to wait, too," he said.  "And now, why
+are you hopping on one foot in that absurd fashion?"
+
+"Dad, dear, I lost my shoe----"
+
+"Her very best pink one," Barry explained; "she threw it after the bride,
+and now I've got to give her another pair for her birthday."
+
+The General's old eyes brightened as he surveyed the young pair.  This
+was as it should be, the son of his old friend and the daughter of his
+heart.
+
+He tried to look stern, however.  "Haven't I always kept you supplied
+with pink shoes and blue shoes and all the colors of the rainbow shoes!"
+he demanded.  "And why should you tax Barry?"
+
+"But, Dad, he wants to."  She looked eagerly at Barry for confirmation.
+"He wants to give them to me--for my birthday----"
+
+"Of course I do," said Barry, lightly.  "If I didn't give her slippers, I
+should have to give her something else--and far be it from me to know
+what--little--lovely--Leila--wants----"
+
+And to the tune of his chant, they hippity-hopped together up the stairs
+in a hunt for some stray shoe that should fit little-lovely-Leila's foot!
+
+A little later, the silken ladies having descended the stairway for the
+last time, Aunt Frances took her amber satin stateliness to the Sanctum.
+
+Behind her, a silver shadow, came Aunt Isabelle, and bringing up the
+rear, General Dick, and the four young people; Leila in a pair of
+mismated slippers, hippity-hopping behind with Barry, and Porter assuring
+Mary that he knew he "hadn't any business to butt in to a family party,"
+but that he was coming anyhow.
+
+The Sanctum was the front room on the second floor.  It had been the
+Little Mother's room in the days when she was still with them, and now it
+had been turned into a retreat where the young people drifted when they
+wanted quiet, or where they met for consultation and advice.  Except that
+the walnut bed and bureau had been taken out nothing had been changed,
+and their mother's books were still in the low bookcases; religious
+books, many of them, reflecting the gentle faith of the owner.  On mantel
+and table and walls were photographs of her children in long clothes and
+short, and then once more in long ones; there was Barry in wide collars
+and knickerbockers, and Constance and Mary in ermine caps and capes;
+there was Barry again in the military uniform of his preparatory school;
+Constance in her graduation frock, and Mary with her hair up for the
+first time.  There was a picture of their father on porcelain in a blue
+velvet case, and another picture of him above the mantel in an oval
+frame, with one of the Little Mother's, also in an oval frame, to flank
+it.  In the fairness of the Little Mother one traced the fairness of
+Barry and Constance.  But the fairness and features of the father were
+Mary's.
+
+Mary had never looked more like her father than now when, sitting under
+his picture, she stated her case.  What she had to say she said simply.
+But when she had finished there was the silence of astonishment.
+
+In a day, almost in an hour, little Mary had grown up!  With Constance as
+the nominal head of the household, none of them had realized that it was
+Mary's mind which had worked out the problems of making ends meet, and
+that it was Mary's strength and industry which had supplemented Susan's
+waning efforts in the care of the big house.
+
+"I want to keep the house," Mary repeated.  "I had to talk it over
+to-night, Aunt Frances, because you go back to New York in the morning,
+and I couldn't speak of it before to-night because I was afraid that some
+hint of my plan would get to Constance and she would be troubled.  She'll
+learn it later, but I didn't want her to have it on her mind now.  I want
+to stay here.  I've always lived here, and so has Barry--and while I
+appreciate your plans for me to go to Nice, I don't think it would be
+fair or right for me to leave Barry."
+
+Barry, a little embarrassed to be brought into it, said, "Oh, you needn't
+mind about me----"
+
+"But I do mind."  Mary had risen and was speaking earnestly.  "I am sure
+you must see it, Aunt Frances.  If I went with you, Barry would be left
+to--drift--and I shouldn't like to think of that.  Mother wouldn't have
+liked it, or father."  Her voice touched an almost shrill note of protest.
+
+Porter Bigelow, sitting unobtrusively in the background, was moved by her
+earnestness.  "There's something back of it," his quick mind told him;
+"she knows about--Barry----"
+
+But Barry, too, was on his feet.  "Oh, look here, Mary," he was
+expostulating, "I'm not going to have you stay at home and miss a winter
+of good times, just because I'll have to eat a few meals in a
+boarding-house.  And I sha'n't have to eat many.  When I get starved for
+home cooking, I'll hunt up my friends.  You'll take me in now and then,
+for Sunday dinner, won't you, General?--Leila says you will; and it isn't
+as if you were never coming back--Mary."
+
+"If we close the house now," Mary said, "it will mean that it won't be
+opened again.  You all know that."  Her accusing glance rested on Aunt
+Frances and the General.  "You all think it ought to be sold, but if we
+sell what will become of Susan Jenks, who nursed us and who nursed
+mother, and what shall we do with all the dear old things that were
+mother's and father's, and who will live in the dear old rooms?"  She was
+struggling for composure.  "Oh, don't you see that I--I can't go?"
+
+It was Aunt Frances' crisp voice which brought her back to calmness.
+"But, my dear, you can't afford to keep it open.  Your income with what
+Barry earns isn't any more than enough to pay your running expenses;
+there's nothing left for taxes or improvements.  I'm perfectly willing to
+finance you to the best of my ability, but I think it very foolish to
+sink any more money--here----"
+
+"I don't want you to sink it, Aunt Frances.  Constance begged me to use
+her little part of our income, but I wouldn't.  We sha'n't need it.  I've
+fixed things so that we shall have money for the taxes.  I--I have rented
+the Tower Rooms, Aunt Frances!"
+
+They stared at her stunned.  Even Leila tore her adoring eyes from
+Barry's face, and fixed them on the girl who made this astounding
+statement.
+
+"Mary," Aunt Frances gasped, "do you meant that you are going to
+take--lodgers----?"
+
+"Only one, Aunt Frances.  And he's perfectly respectable.  I advertised
+and he answered, and he gave me a bank reference."
+
+"_He_.  Mary, is it a man?"
+
+Mary nodded.  "Of course.  I should hate to have a woman fussing around.
+And I set the rent for the suite at exactly the amount I shall need to
+take me through this year, and he was satisfied."
+
+She turned and picked up a printed slip from the table.
+
+"This is the way I wrote my ad," she said, "and I had twenty-seven
+answers.  And this seemed the best----"
+
+"Twenty-seven!"  Aunt Frances held out her hand.  "Will you let me see
+what you wrote to get such remarkable results?"
+
+Mary handed it to her, and through the diamond-studded lorgnette Aunt
+Frances read:
+
+"To let: Suite of two rooms and bath; with Gentleman's Library.  House on
+top of a high hill which overlooks the city.  Exceptional advantages for
+a student or scholar."
+
+"I consider," said Mary, as Aunt Frances paused, "that the Gentleman's
+Library part was an inspiration.  It was the bait at which they all
+nibbled."
+
+The General chuckled, "She'll do.  Let her have her own way, Frances.
+She's got a head on her like a man's."
+
+Aunt Frances turned on him.  "Mary speaks what is to me a rather new
+language of independence.  And she can't stay here alone.  She _can't_.
+It isn't proper--without an older woman in the house."
+
+"But I want an older woman.  Oh, Aunt Frances, please, may I have Aunt
+Isabelle?"
+
+She had raised her voice so that Aunt Isabelle caught the name.  "What
+does she want, Frances?" asked the deaf woman; "what does she want?"
+
+"She wants you to live with her--here."  Aunt Frances was thinking
+rapidly; it wasn't such a bad plan.  It was always a problem to take
+Isabelle when she and her daughter traveled.  And if they left her in New
+York there was always the haunting fear that she might be ill, or that
+they might be criticized for leaving her.
+
+"Mary wants you to live with her," she said, "While we are abroad, would
+you like it--a winter in Washington?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle's gentle face was illumined.  "Do you really _want_ me, my
+dear?" she asked in her hushed voice.  It had been a long time since Aunt
+Isabelle had felt that she was wanted anywhere.  It seemed to her that
+since the illness which had sent her into a world of silence, that her
+presence had been endured, not coveted.
+
+Mary came over and put her arms about her.  "Will you, Aunt Isabelle?"
+she asked.  "I shall miss Constance so, and it would almost be like
+having mother to have--you----"
+
+No one knew how madly the hungry heart was beating under the silver-gray
+gown.  Aunt Isabella was only forty-eight, twelve years younger than her
+sister Frances, but she had faded and drooped, while Frances had stood up
+like a strong flower on its stem.  And the little faded drooping lady
+yearned for tenderness, was starved for it, and here was Mary in her
+youth and beauty, promising it.
+
+"I want you so much, and Barry wants you--and Susan Jenks----"
+
+She was laughing tremulously, and Aunt Isabelle laughed too, holding on
+to herself, so that she might not show in face or gesture the wildness of
+her joy.
+
+"You won't mind, will you, Frances?" she asked.
+
+Aunt Frances rose and shook out her amber skirts "I shall of course be
+much disappointed," she pitched her voice high and spoke with chill
+stateliness, "I shall be very much disappointed that neither you nor Mary
+will be with us for the winter.  And I shall have to cross alone.  But
+Grace can meet me in London.  She's going there to see Constance, and I
+shall stay for a while and start the young people socially.  I should
+think you'd want to see Constance, Mary."
+
+Mary drew a quick breath.  "I do want to see her--but I have to think
+about Barry--and for this winter, at least, my place--is here."
+
+Then from the back of the room spoke Porter Bigelow.
+
+"What's the name of your lodger?"
+
+"Roger Poole."
+
+"There are Pooles in Gramercy Park," said Aunt Frances.  "I wonder if
+he's one of them."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "He's from the South."
+
+"I should think," said Porter, slowly, "that you'd want to know something
+of him besides his bank reference before you took him into your house."
+
+"Why?" Mary demanded.
+
+"Because he might be--a thief, or a rascal," Porter spoke hotly.
+
+Over the heads of the others their eyes met.  "He is neither," said Mary.
+"I know a gentleman when I see one, Porter."
+
+Then the temper of the redhead flamed.  "Oh, do you?  Well, for my part I
+wish that you were going to Nice, Mary."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+_In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of This Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances With the Rest._
+
+
+When Roger Poole came a week later to the big house on the hill, it was
+on a rainy day.  He carried his own bag, and was let in at the lower
+door by Susan Jenks.
+
+Her smiling brown face gave him at once a sense of homeyness.  She led
+the way through the wide hall and up the front stairs, crisp and
+competent in her big white apron and black gown.
+
+As he followed her, Roger was aware that the house had lost its
+effulgence.  The flowers were gone, and the radiance, and the stairs
+that the silken ladies had once ascended showed, at closer range,
+certain signs of shabbiness.  The carpet was old and mended.  There was
+a chilliness about the atmosphere, as if the fire, too, needed mending.
+
+But when Susan Jenks opened the door of the Tower Room, he was met by
+warmth and brightness.  Here was the light of leaping flames and of a
+low-shaded lamp.  On the table beside the lamp was a pot of pink
+hyacinths, and their fragrance made the air sweet.  The inner room was
+no longer a rosy bower, but a man's retreat, with its substantial
+furniture, its simplicity, its absence of non-essentials.  In this room
+Roger set down his bag, and Susan Jenks, hanging big towels and little
+ones in the bathroom, drawing the curtains, and coaxing the fire,
+flitted cozily back and forth for a few minutes and then withdrew.
+
+It was then that Roger surveyed his domain.  He was monarch of all of
+it.  The big chair was his to rest in, the fire was his, the low lamp,
+all the old friends in the bookcases!
+
+He went again into the inner room.  The glass candlesticks were gone
+and the photographs in their silver and ivory frames, but over the
+mantel there was a Corot print with forest vistas, and another above
+his little bedside table.  On the table was a small electric lamp with
+a green shade, a new magazine, and a little old bulging Bible with a
+limp leather binding.
+
+As he stood looking down at the little table, he was thrilled by the
+sense of safety after a storm.  Outside was the world with its harsh
+judgments.  Outside was the rain and the beating wind.  Within were
+these signs of a heart-warming hospitality.  Here was no bleak
+cleanliness, no perfunctory arrangement, but a place prepared as for an
+honored guest.
+
+Down-stairs Mary was explaining to Aunt Isabelle.  "I'll have Susan
+Jenks take some coffee to him.  He's to get his dinners in town, and
+Susan will serve his breakfast in his room.  But I thought the coffee
+to-night after the rain--might be comfortable."
+
+The two women were in the dining-room.  The table had been set for
+three, but Barry had not come.
+
+The dinner had been a simple affair--an unfashionably nourishing soup,
+a broiled fish, a salad and now the coffee.  Thus did Mary and Susan
+Jenks make income and expenses meet.  Susan's good cooking,
+supplementing Mary's gastronomic discrimination, made a feast of the
+simple fare.
+
+"What's his business, my dear?"
+
+"Mr. Poole's?  He's in the Treasury.  But I think he's studying
+something.  He seemed to be so eager for the books----"
+
+"Your father's books?"
+
+"Yes.  I left them all up there.  I even left father's old Bible.
+Somehow I felt that if any one was tired or lonely that the old Bible
+would open at the right page."
+
+"Your father was often lonely?"
+
+"Yes.  After mother's death.  And he worked too hard, and things went
+wrong with his business.  I used to slip up to his bedroom sometimes in
+the last days, and there he'd be with the old Bible on his knee, and
+mother's picture in his hand."  Mary's eyes were wet.
+
+"He loved your mother and missed her."
+
+"It was more than that.  He was afraid of the future for Constance and
+me.  He was afraid of the future for--Barry----"
+
+Susan Jenks, carrying a mahogany tray on which was a slender silver
+coffee-pot flanked by a dish of cheese and toasted biscuit, asked as
+she went through the room: "Shall I save any dinner for Mr. Barry?"
+
+"He'll be here," Mary said.  "Porter Bigelow is taking us to the
+theater, and Barry's to make the fourth."
+
+Barry was often late, but to-night it was half-past seven when he came
+rushing in.
+
+"I don't want anything to eat," he said, stopping at the door of the
+dining-room where Mary and Aunt Isabelle still waited.  "I had tea
+down-town with General Dick and Leila's crowd.  And we danced.  There
+was a girl from New York, and she was a little queen."
+
+Mary smiled at him.  To Aunt Isabella's quick eyes it seemed to be a
+smile of relief.  "Oh, then you were with the General and Leila," she
+said.
+
+"Yes.  Where did you think I was?"
+
+"Nowhere," flushing.
+
+He started up-stairs and then came back.  "I wish you'd give me credit
+for being able to keep a promise, Mary.  You know what I told Con----"
+
+"It wasn't that I didn't believe----"  Mary crossed the dining-room and
+stood in the door.
+
+"Yes, it was.  You thought I was with the old crowd.  I might as well
+go with them as to have you always thinking it."
+
+"I'm not always thinking it."
+
+"Yes, you are, too," hotly.
+
+"Barry--please----"
+
+He stood uneasily at the foot of the stairs.  "You can't understand how
+I feel.  If you were a boy----"
+
+She caught him up.  "If I were a boy?  Barry, if I were a boy I'd make
+the world move.  Oh, you | men, you have things all your own way, and
+you let it stand still----"
+
+She had raised her voice, and her words floating up and up reached the
+ears of Roger Poole, who appeared at the top of the stairway.
+
+There was a moment's startled silence, then Mary spoke.
+
+"Barry, it is Mr. Poole.  You don't know each other, do you?"
+
+The two men, one going up the stairway, the other coming down, met and
+shook hands.  Then Barry muttered something about having to run away
+and dress, and Roger and Mary were left alone.
+
+It was the first time that they had seen each other, since the night of
+the wedding.  They had arranged everything by telephone, and on the
+second short visit that Roger had made to his rooms, Susan Jenks had
+looked after him.
+
+It seemed to Roger now that, like the house, Mary had taken on a new
+and less radiant aspect.  She looked pale and tired.  Her dress of
+white with its narrow edge of dark fur made her taller and older.  Her
+fair waved hair was parted at the side and dressed compactly without
+ornament or ribbon.  He was again, however, impressed by the almost
+frank boyishness of her manner as she said:
+
+"I want you to meet Aunt Isabella.  She can't hear very well, so you'll
+have to raise your voice."
+
+As they went in together, Mary was forced to readjust certain opinions
+which she had formed of her lodger.  The other night he had been
+divorced from the dapper youths of her own set by his lack of
+up-to-dateness, his melancholy, his air of mystery.
+
+But to-night he wore a loose coat which she recognized at once as good
+style.  His dark hair which had hung in an untidy lock was brushed back
+as smoothly and as sleekly as Gordon Richardson's.  His dark eyes had a
+waked-up look.  And there was a hint of color in his clean-shaven olive
+cheeks.
+
+"I came down," he told her as he walked beside her, "to thank you for
+the coffee, for the hyacinths; for the fire, for the--welcome that my
+room gave me."
+
+"Oh, did you like it?  We were very busy up there all the morning, Aunt
+Isabelle and I and Susan Jenks."
+
+"I felt like thanking Susan Jenks for the big bath towels; they seemed
+to add the final perfect touch."
+
+She laughed and repeated his remark to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Think of his being grateful for bath towels, Aunt Isabelle."
+
+After his presentation to Aunt Isabelle, he said, smiling:
+
+"And there was another touch--the big gray pussy cat.  She was in the
+window-seat, and when I sat down to look at the lights, she tucked her
+head under my hand and sang to me."
+
+"_Pittiwitz_?  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, we left Pittiwitz up there.  She
+claims your room as hers," she explained to Roger.  "We've had her for
+years.  And she was always there with father, and then with Constance
+and me.  If she's a bother, just put her on the back stairs and she
+will come down."
+
+"But she isn't a bother.  It is very pleasant to have something alive
+to bear me company."
+
+The moment that his remark was made he was afraid that she might
+interpret it as a plea for companionship.  And he had no right----
+What earthly right had he to expect to enter this charmed circle?
+
+Susan Jenks came in with her arms full of wraps.  "Mr. Porter's
+coming," she said, "and it's eight o'clock now."
+
+"We are going out----"  Mary was interested to note that her lodger had
+taken Aunt Isabelle's wrap, and was putting her into it without
+self-consciousness.
+
+Her own wrap was of a shimmering gray-green velvet which matched her
+eyes, and there was a collar of dark fur.
+
+"It's a pretty thing," Roger said, as he held it for her.  "It's like
+the sea in a mist."
+
+She flashed a quick glance at him.  "I like that," she said in her
+straightforward way.  "It is lovely.  Aunt Frances brought it to me
+last year from Paris.  Whenever you see me wear anything that is
+particularly nice, you'll know that it came from Aunt Frances--Aunt
+Isabelle's sister.  She's the rich member of the family.  And all the
+rest of us are as poor as poverty."
+
+Outside a motor horn brayed.  Then Porter Bigelow came in--a perfectly
+put together young man, groomed, tailored, outfitted according to the
+mode.
+
+"Are you ready, Contrary Mary?" he said, then saw Roger and stopped.
+
+Porter was a gentleman, so his manner to Roger Poole showed no hint of
+what he thought of lodgers in general, and this one in particular.  He
+shook hands and said a few pleasant and perfunctory things.  Personally
+he thought the man looked down and out.  But no one could tell what
+Mary might think.  Mary's standards were those of the dreamer and the
+star gazer.  What she was seeking she would never find in a Mere Man.
+The danger lay however, in the fact that she might mistakenly hang her
+affections about the neck of some earth-bound Object and call it an
+Ideal.
+
+As for himself, in spite of his Buff-Orpington crest, and his
+cock-o'-the-walk manner, Porter was, as far Mary was concerned,
+saturated with humility.  He knew that his money, his family's social
+eminence were as nothing in her eyes.  If underneath the weight of
+these things Mary could find enough of a man in him to love that could
+be his only hope.  And that hope had held him for years to certain
+rather sedate ambitions, and had given him moral standards which had
+delighted his mother and had puzzled his father.
+
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," he said to Mary two hours
+later, in the intermission between the second and third acts of the
+musical comedy, which, for a time, had claimed their attention.  Aunt
+Isabelle, in front of the box, was smiling gently, happy in the golden
+light and the nearness of the music.  Barry was visiting Leila and the
+General who were just below, in orchestra chairs.
+
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," Porter repeated, "and now, if
+you'll only let me take care of you----"
+
+Hitherto, Mary had treated his love-making lightly, but to-night she
+turned upon him her troubled eyes.  "Porter, you know I can't.  But
+there are times when I wish--I could----"
+
+"Then why not?"
+
+She stopped him with a gesture.  "It wouldn't be right.  I'm simply
+feeling lonely and lost because Constance is so far away.  But that
+isn't any reason for marrying you.  You deserve a woman who cares, who
+really cares, heart and soul.  And I can't, dear boy."
+
+"I was a fool to think you might," savagely, "a man with a red head is
+always a joke."
+
+"As if that had anything to do with it."
+
+"But it has, Mary.  You know as well as I do that when I was a
+youngster I was always Reddy Bigelow to our crowd--Reddy Bigelow with a
+carrot-head and freckles.  If I had been poor and common, life wouldn't
+have been worth living.  But mother's family and Dad's money fixed that
+for me.  And I had an allowance big enough to supply the neighborhood
+with sweets.  You were a little thing, but you were sorry for me, and I
+didn't have to buy you.  But I'd buy you now--with a house in town and
+a country house, and motor cars and lovely clothes--if I thought it
+would do any good, Mary."
+
+"You wouldn't want me that way, Porter."
+
+"I want you--any way."
+
+He stopped as the curtain went up, and darkness descended.  But
+presently out of the darkness came his whisper, "I want you--any way."
+
+
+They had supper after the play, Leila and the General joining them at
+Porter's compelling invitation.
+
+Pending the serving of the supper, Barry detained Leila for a moment in
+a palm-screened corner of the sumptuous corridor.
+
+"That girl from New York, Leila--Miss Jeliffe?  What is her first name?"
+
+"Delilah."
+
+"It isn't."
+
+Leila's light laughter mocked him.  "Yes, it is, Barry.  She calls
+herself Lilah and pronounces it as I do mine.  But she signs her
+cheques De-lilah."
+
+Barry recovered.  "Where did you meet her?"
+
+"At school.  Her father's in Congress.  They are coming to us
+to-morrow.  Dad has asked me to invite them as house guests until they
+find an apartment."
+
+"Well, she's dazzling."
+
+Leila flamed.  "I don't see how you can like--her kind----"
+
+"Little lady," he admonished, "you're jealous.  I danced four dances
+with her, and only one with your new pink slippers."
+
+She stuck out a small foot.  "They're lovely, Barry," she said,
+repentantly, "and I haven't thanked you."
+
+"Why should you?  Just look pleasant, please.  I've had enough scolding
+for one day."
+
+"Who scolded?"
+
+"Mary."
+
+Leila glanced into the dining-room, where, in her slim fairness, Mary
+was like a pale lily, among all the tulip women, and poppy women, and
+orchid women, and night-shade women of the social garden.
+
+"If Mary scolded you, you deserved it," she said, loyally.
+
+"You too?  Leila, if you don't stick to me, I might as well give up."
+
+His face was moody, brooding.  She forgot the Delilah-dancer of the
+afternoon, forgot everything except that this wonderful man-creature
+was in trouble.
+
+"Barry," she said, simply, like a child, "I'll stick to you until
+I--die."
+
+He looked down into the adoring eyes.  "I believe you would, Leila," he
+said, with a boyish catch in his voice; "you're the dearest thing on
+God's great earth!"
+
+The chilled fruit was already on the table when they went in, and it
+was followed by a chafing dish over which the General presided.
+Red-faced and rapturous, he seasoned and stirred, and as the result of
+his wizardry there was placed before them presently such plates of
+Creole crab as could not be equaled north of New Orleans.
+
+"To cook," said the General, settling himself back in his chair and
+beaming at Mary who was beside him, "one must be a poet--to me there is
+more in that dish than merely something to eat.  There's color--the red
+of tomatoes, the green of the peppers, the pale ivory of mushrooms, the
+snow white of the crab--there's atmosphere--aroma."
+
+"The difference," Mary told him, smiling, "between your cooking and
+Susan Jenks' is the difference between an epic--and a nursery rhyme.
+They're both good, but Susan's is unpremeditated art."
+
+"I take off my hat to Susan Jenks," said the General--"when her poetry
+expresses itself in waffles and fried chicken."
+
+Mary was devoting herself to the General.  Porter Bigelow who was on
+the other side of her, was devoting himself to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+Aunt Isabelle was serenely content in her new office of chaperone.
+
+"I can hear so much better in a crowd." she said, "and then there's so
+much to see."
+
+"And this is the time for the celebrities," said Porter, and wrote on
+the corner of the supper card the name of a famous Russian countess at
+the table next to them.  Beyond was the Speaker of the House; the
+British Ambassador with his fair company of ladies; the Spanish
+Ambassador at a table of darker beauties.
+
+Mary, listening to Porter's pleasant voice, was constrained to admit
+that he could be charming.  As for the freckles and "carrot-head," they
+had been succeeded by a fine if somewhat florid complexion, and the
+curled thickness of his brilliant crown gave to his head an almost
+classic beauty.
+
+As she studied him, his eyes met hers, and he surprised her by a quick
+smile of understanding.
+
+"Oh, Contrary Mary," he murmured, so that the rest could not hear,
+"what do you think of me?"
+
+She found herself blushing, "_Porter._"
+
+"You were weighing me in the balance?  Red head against my lovely
+disposition?"
+
+Before she could answer, he had turned back to Aunt Isabelle, leaving
+Mary with her cheeks hot.
+
+After supper, the young host insisted that Leila and the General should
+go home in his limousine with Barry and Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Mary and I will follow in a taxi," he said in the face of their
+protests.
+
+"Young man," demanded the twinkling General, "if I accept, will you
+look upon me in the light of an incumbrance or a benefactor?"
+
+"A benefactor, sir," said Porter, promptly, and that settled it.
+
+"And now," said Porter, as, having seen the rest of the party off, he
+took his seat beside the slim figure in the green velvet wrap, "now I
+am going to have it out with you."
+
+"But--Porter!"
+
+"I've a lot to say.  And we are going to ride around the Speedway while
+I say it."
+
+"But--it's raining."
+
+"All the better.  It will be we two and the world away, Mary."
+
+"And there isn't anything to say."
+
+"Oh, yes, there is--_oodles_."
+
+"And Aunt Isabelle will be worried."
+
+He drew the rug up around her and settled back as placidly as if the
+hands on the moon face of the clock on the post-office tower were not
+pointing to midnight.  "Aunt Isabelle has been told," he informed her,
+"that you may be a bit late.  I wrote it on the supper card, and she
+read it--and smiled."
+
+He waited in silence until they had left the avenue, and were on the
+driveway back of the Treasury which leads toward the river.
+
+"Porter, this is a wild thing to do."
+
+"I'm in a wild mood--a mood that fits in with the rain and wind, Mary.
+I'm in such a mood that if the times were different and the age more
+romantic, I would pick you up and put you on my champing steed and
+carry you off to my castle."
+
+He laughed, and for the moment she was thrilled by his masterfulness.
+"But, alas, my steed is a taxi--the age is prosaic--and you--I'm afraid
+of you, Contrary Mary."
+
+They were on the Speedway now, faintly illumined, showing a row of
+waving willow trees, spectrally outlined against a background of gray
+water.
+
+"I'm afraid of you.  I have always been.  Even when you were only ten
+and I was fifteen.  I would shake in my shoes when you looked at me,
+Mary; you were the only one then--you are the only one--now."
+
+Her hand lay on the outside of the rug.  He put his own over it.
+
+"Ever since you said to-night that you didn't care--there's been
+something singing--in my brain, and it has said, 'make her care, make
+her care.'  And I'm going to do it.  I'm not going to trouble you or
+worry you with it--and I'm going to take my chances with the rest.  But
+in the end I'm going to--win."
+
+"There aren't any others."
+
+"If there aren't there will be.  You've kept yourself protected so far
+by that little independent manner of yours, which scares men off.  But
+some day a man will come who won't be scared--and then it will be a
+fight to the finish between him--and me."
+
+"Oh, Porter, I don't want to think of marrying--not for ten million
+years."
+
+"And yet," he said prophetically, "if to-morrow you should meet some
+man who could make you think he was the Only One, you'd marry him in
+the face of all the world."
+
+"No man of that kind will ever come."
+
+"What kind?"
+
+"That will make me willing to lose the world."
+
+The rain was beating against the windows of the cab.
+
+"Porter, please.  We must go home."
+
+"Not unless you'll promise to let me prove it--to let me show that I'm
+a man--not a--boy."
+
+"You're the best friend I've ever had.  I wish you wouldn't insist on
+being something else."
+
+"But I do insist----"
+
+"And I insist upon going home.  Be good and take me."
+
+It was said with decision, and he gave the order to the driver.  And so
+they whirled at last up the avenue of the Presidents and along the
+edges of the Park, and arrived at the foot of the terrace of the big
+house.
+
+There was a light in the tower window.
+
+"That fellow is up yet," Porter said.  He had an umbrella over her, and
+was shielding her as best he could from the rain.  "I don't like to
+think of him in the house."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Oh, he sees you every day.  Talks to you every day.  And what do you
+know of him?  And I who've known you all my life must be content with
+scrappy minutes with other people around.  And anyhow--I believe I'd be
+jealous of Satan himself, Mary."
+
+They were under the porch now, and she drew away from him a bit,
+surveying him with disapproving eyes.
+
+"You aren't like yourself to-night, Porter."
+
+He put one hand on her shoulder and stood looking down at her.  "How
+can I be?  What am I going to do when I leave you, Mary, and face the
+fact that you don't care--that I'm no more to you--than that fellow up
+there in the--tower?"
+
+He straightened himself, then with the madness of his earlier mood upon
+him, he said one thing more before he left her:
+
+"Contrary Mary, if I weren't such a coward, and you weren't
+so--wonderful--I'd kiss you now--and _make_ you--care----"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+_In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets That There is Any One Else in the House._
+
+
+Up-stairs among his books Roger Poole heard Mary come in.  With the
+curtains drawn behind him to shut out the light, he looked down into
+the streaming night, and saw Porter drive away alone.
+
+Then Mary's footstep on the stairs; her raised voice as she greeted
+Aunt Isabelle, who had waited up for her.  A door was shut, and again
+the house sank into silence.
+
+Roger turned to his books, but not to read.  The old depression was
+upon him.  In the glow of his arrival, he had been warmed by the hope
+that things could be different; here in this hospitable house he had,
+perchance, found a home.  So he had gone down to find that he was an
+outsider--an alien--old where they were young, separated from Barry and
+Porter and Mary by years of dark experience.
+
+To him, at this moment, Mary Ballard stood for a symbol of the things
+which he had lost.  Her youth and light-heartedness, her high courage,
+and now, perhaps, her romance.  He knew the look that was in Porter
+Bigelow's eyes when they had rested upon her.  The look of a man who
+claims--his own.  And behind Bigelow's pleasant and perfunctory
+greeting Roger had felt a subtle antagonism.  He smiled bitterly.  No
+man need fear him.  He was out of the running.  He was done with love,
+with romance, with women, forever.  A woman had spoiled his life.
+
+Yet, if before the other, he had met Mary Ballard?  The possibilities
+swept over him.  His life to-day would have been different.  He would
+be facing the world, not turning his back to it.
+
+Brooding over the dying fire, his eyes were stern.  If it had been his
+fault, he would have taken his punishment without flinching.  But to be
+overthrown by an act of chivalry--to be denied the expression of that
+which surged within him.  Daily he bent over a desk, doing the work
+that any man might do, he who had been carried on the shoulders of his
+fellow students, he whose voice had rung with a clarion call!
+
+In the lower hall, a door was again opened, and now there were
+footsteps ascending.  Then he heard a little laugh.  "I've found
+her--Aunt Isabelle, she insists upon going up."
+
+He clicked off his light and very carefully opened his door.  Mary was
+in the lower hall, the heavy gray cat hugged up in her arms.  She wore
+a lace boudoir cap, and a pale blue dressing-gown trailed after her.
+Seen thus, she was exquisitely feminine.  Faintly through his
+consciousness flitted Porter Bigelow's name for her--Contrary Mary.
+Why Contrary?  Was there another side which he had not seen?  He had
+heard her flaming words to Barry, "If I were a man--I'd make the world
+move----" and he had been for the moment repelled.  He had no sympathy
+with modern feminine rebellions.  Women were women.  Men were men.  The
+things which they had in common were love, and that which followed, the
+home, the family.  Beyond these things their lives were divided,
+necessarily, properly.
+
+He groped his way back through the darkness to the tower window, opened
+it and leaned out.  The rain beat upon his face, the wind blew his hair
+back, and fluttered the ends of his loose tie.  Below him lay the
+storm-swept city, its lights faint and flickering.  He remembered a
+test which he had chosen on a night like this.
+
+"O Lord, Thou art my God.  I will exalt Thee, I will praise Thy name,
+for Thou hast done wonderful things; Thou hast been a strength to the
+poor, a strength to the needy in distress . . . a refuge from the
+storm----"
+
+How the words came back to him, out of that vivid past.  But
+to-night--why, there was no--God!  Was he the fool who had once seen
+God--in a storm?
+
+He shut the window, and finding a heavy coat and an old cap put them
+on.  Then he made his way, softly, down the tower steps to the side
+door.  Mary had pointed out to him that this entrance would make it
+possible for him to go and come as he pleased.  To-night it pleased him
+to walk in the beating rain.
+
+At the far end of the garden there was an old fountain, in which a
+bronze boy rode on a bronze dolphin.  The basin of the fountain was
+filled with sodden leaves.  A street lamp at the foot of the terrace
+illumined the bronze boy's face so that it seemed to wear a twisted
+grin.  It was as if he laughed at the storm and at life, defying the
+elements with his sardonic mirth.
+
+Back and forth, restlessly, went the lonely man, hating to enter again
+the rooms which only a few hours before had seemed a refuge.  It would
+have been better to have stayed in his last cheap boarding-house,
+better to have kept away from this place which brought memories--better
+never to have seen this group of young folk who were gay as he had once
+been gay--better never to have seen--Mary Ballard!
+
+He glanced up at the room beneath his own where her light still burned.
+He wondered if she had stayed awake to think of the young Apollo of the
+auburn head.  Perhaps he was already her accepted lover.  And why not?
+
+Why should he care who loved Mary Ballard?
+
+He had never believed in love at first sight.  He didn't believe in it
+now.  He only knew that he had been thrilled by a look, warmed by a
+friendliness, touched by a frankness and sincerity such as he had found
+in no other woman.  And because he had been thrilled and warmed and
+touched by these things, he was feeling to-night the deadly mockery of
+a fate which had brought her too late into his life.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+Coming in, shivering and excited after her ride with Porter, Mary had
+found evidence of Aunt Isabelle's solicitous care for her.  Her fire
+was burning brightly, the covers of her bed were turned down, her blue
+dressing-gown and the little blue slippers were warming in front of the
+blaze.
+
+"No one ever did such things for me before," Mary said with
+appreciation, as the gentle lady came in to kiss her niece good-night.
+"Mother wasn't that kind.  We all waited on her.  And Susan Jenks is
+too busy; it isn't right to keep her up.  And anyway I've always been
+more like a boy, taking care of myself.  Constance was the one we
+petted, Con and mother."
+
+"I love to do it," Aunt Isabelle said, eagerly.  "When I am at Frances'
+there are so many servants, and I feel pushed out.  There's nothing
+that I can do for any one.  Grace and Frances each have a maid.  So I
+live my own life, and sometimes it has been--lonely."
+
+"You darling."  Mary laid her cool young lips against the soft cheek.
+"I'm dead lonely, too.  That's why I wanted you."
+
+Aunt Isabelle stood for a moment looking into the fire.  "It has been
+years since anybody wanted me," she said, finally.
+
+There was no bitterness in her tone; she simply stated a fact.  Yet in
+her youth she had been the beauty of the family, and the toast of a
+county.
+
+"Aunt Isabelle," Mary said, suddenly, "is marriage the only way out for
+a woman?"
+
+"The only way?"
+
+"To freedom.  It seems to me that a single woman always seems to belong
+to her family.  Why shouldn't you do as you please?  Why shouldn't I?
+And yet you've never lived your own life.  And I sha'n't be able to
+live mine except by fighting every inch of the way."
+
+A flush stained Aunt Isabelle's cheeks.  "I have always been poor,
+Mary----"
+
+"But that isn't it," fiercely.  "There are poor girls who aren't
+tied--I mean by conventions and family traditions.  Why, Aunt Isabelle,
+I rented the Tower Rooms not only in defiance of the living--but of the
+dead.  I can see mother's face if we had thought of such a thing while
+she lived.  Yet we needed the money then.  We needed it to help Dad--to
+save him----"  The last words were spoken under her breath, and Aunt
+Isabelle did not catch them.
+
+"And now everybody wants me to get married.  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, sit
+down and let's talk it out.  I'm not sleepy, are you?"  She drew the
+little lady beside her on the high-backed couch which faced the fire.
+"Everybody wants me to get married, Aunt Isabelle.  And to-night I had
+it out with--Porter."
+
+"You don't love him?"
+
+"Not--that way.  But sometimes--he makes me feel as if I couldn't
+escape him--as if he would persist and persist, until he won.  But I
+don't want love to come to me that way.  It seems to me that if one
+loves, one knows.  One doesn't have to be shown."
+
+"My dear, sometimes it is a tragedy when a woman knows."
+
+"But why?"
+
+"Because men like to conquer.  When they see love in a woman's eyes,
+their own love--dies."
+
+"I should hate a man like that," said Mary, frankly.  "If a man only
+loves you because of the conquest, what's going to happen when you are
+married and the chase is over?  No, Aunt Isabelle, when I fall in love,
+it will be with a man who will know that I am the One Woman.  He must
+love me because I am Me--Myself.  Not because some one else admires me,
+or because I can keep him guessing.  He will know me as I know him--as
+his Predestined Mate!"
+
+Thus spoke Sweet and Twenty, glowing.  And Sweet and Forty, meeting
+that flame with her banked fires, faltered.  "But, my dear, how can you
+know?"
+
+"How did you know?"
+
+The abrupt question drove every drop of blood from Aunt Isabelle's
+face.  "Who told you?"
+
+"Mother.  One night when I asked her why you had never married.  You
+don't mind, do you?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head.  "No.  And, Mary, dear, I've faced all
+the loneliness, all the dependence, rather than be untrue to that which
+he gave me and I gave him.  There was one night, in this old garden.  I
+was visiting your mother, and he was in Congress at the time, and the
+garden was full of roses--and it was--moonlight.  And we sat by the
+fountain, and there was the soft splash of the water, and he said:
+'Isabelle, the little bronze boy is throwing kisses at you--do you see
+him--smiling?'  And I said, 'I want no kisses but yours'--and that was
+the last time.  The next day he was killed--thrown from his horse while
+he was riding out here to see--me.
+
+"It was after that I was so ill.  And something teemed to snap in my
+head, and one day when I sat beside the fountain I found that I
+couldn't hear the splash of the water, and things began to go; the
+voices I loved seemed far away, and I could tell that the wind was
+blowing only by the movement of the leaves, and the birds rounded out
+their little throats--but I heard--no music----"
+
+Her voice trailed away into silence.
+
+"But before the stillness, there were others who--wanted me--for I
+hadn't lost my prettiness, and Frances did her best for me.  And she
+didn't like it when I said I couldn't marry, Mary.  But now I am glad.
+For in the silence, my love and I live, in a world of our own."
+
+"Aunt Isabelle--darling.  How lovely and sweet, and sad----"  Mary was
+kneeling beside her aunt, her arm thrown around her, and Aunt Isabelle,
+reading her lips, did not need to hear the words.
+
+"If I had been strong, like you, Mary, I could have held my own against
+Frances and have made something of myself.  But I'm not strong, and
+twenty-five years ago women did not ask for freedom.  They asked
+for--love."
+
+"But I want to find freedom in my love.  Not be bound as Porter wants
+to bind me.  He'd put me on a pedestal and worship me, and I'd rather
+stand shoulder to shoulder with my husband and be his comrade.  I don't
+want him to look up too far, or to look down as Gordon looks down on
+Constance."
+
+"Looks down?  Why, he adores her, Mary."
+
+"Oh, he loves her.  And he'll do everything for her, but he will do it
+as if she were a child.  He won't ask her opinion in any vital matter.
+He won't share his big interests with her, and so he'll never discover
+the big fine womanliness.  And she'll shrivel to his measure of her."
+
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head, smiling.  "Don't analyze too much, Mary.
+Men and women are human--and you may lose yourself in a search for the
+Ideal."
+
+"Do you know what Porter calls me, Aunt Isabelle?  Contrary Mary.  He
+says I never do things the way the people expect.  Yet I do them the
+way that I must.  It is as if some force were inside of me--driving
+me--on."
+
+She stood up as she said it, stretching out her arms in an eager
+gesture.  "Aunt Isabelle, if I were a man, there'd be something in the
+world for me to do.  Yet here I am, making ends meet, holding up my
+part of the housekeeping with Susan Jenks, and taking from the hands of
+my rich friends such pleasures as I dare accept without return."
+
+Aunt Isabelle pulled her down beside her.  "Rebellious Mary," she said,
+"who is going to tame you?"
+
+They laughed a little, clinging to each other, and than Mary said, "You
+must go to bed, Aunt Isabelle.  I'm keeping you up shamefully."
+
+They kissed again and separated, and Mary made ready for bed.  She took
+off her cap, and all her lovely hair fell about her.  That was another
+of her contrary ways.  She and Constance had been taught to braid it
+neatly, but from little girlhood Mary had protested, and on going to
+bed with two prim pigtails had been known to wake up in the middle of
+the night and take them down, only to be discovered in the morning with
+all her fair curls in a tangle.  Scolding had not availed.  Once, as
+dire punishment, the curls had been cut off.  But Mary had rejoiced.
+"It makes me look like a boy," she had told her mother, calmly, "and I
+like it."
+
+Another of her little girl fancies had been to say her prayers aloud.
+She said them that way to-night, kneeling by her bed with her fair head
+on her folded hands.
+
+Then she turned out the light, and drew her curtains back.  As she
+looked out at the driving rain, the flare of the street lamp showed a
+motionless figure on the terrace.  For a moment she peered,
+palpitating, then flew into Aunt Isabelle's room.
+
+"There's some one in the garden."
+
+"Perhaps it's Barry."
+
+"Didn't he come with you?"
+
+"No.  He went on with Leila and the General."
+
+"But it is two o'clock, Aunt Isabelle."
+
+"I didn't know; I thought perhaps he had come."
+
+Going back into her room, Mary threw on her blue dressing-gown and
+slippers and opened her door.  The light was still burning in the hall.
+Barry always turned it out when he came.  She stood undecided, then
+started down the back stairs, but halted as the door opened and a dark
+figure appeared.
+
+"Barry----"
+
+Roger Poole looked up at her.  "It isn't your brother," he said.  "I--I
+must beg your pardon for disturbing you.  I could not sleep, and I went
+out----"  He stopped and stammered.  Poised there above him with all
+the wonder of her unbound hair about her, she was like some celestial
+vision.
+
+She smiled at him.  "It doesn't matter," she said; "please don't
+apologize.  It was foolish of me to be--frightened.  But I had
+forgotten that there was any one else in the house."
+
+She was unconscious of the effect of her words.  But his soul shrank
+within him.  To her he was the lodger who paid the rent.  To him she
+was, well, just now she was, to him, the Blessed Damosel!
+
+Faintly in the distance they heard the closing of a door.  "It's
+Barry," Mary said, and suddenly a wave of self-consciousness swept over
+her.  What would Barry think to find her at this hour talking to Roger
+Poole?  And what would he think of Roger Poole, who walked in the
+garden on a rainy night?
+
+Roger saw her confusion.  "I'll turn out this light," he said, "and
+wait----"
+
+And she waited, too, in the darkness until Barry was safe in his own
+room, then she spoke softly.  "Thank you so much," she said, and was
+gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+_In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice--and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part._
+
+
+Since the night of his arrival, Roger had not intruded upon the family
+circle.  He had read hostility in Barry's eyes as the boy had looked up
+at him; and Mary, in spite of her friendliness, had forgotten that he was
+in the house!  Well, they had set the pace, and he would keep to it.
+Here in the tower he could live alone--yet not be lonely, for the books
+were there--and they brought forgetfulness.
+
+He took long walks through the city, now awakening to social and
+political activities.  Back to town came the folk who had fled from the
+summer heat; back came the members of House and of Senate, streaming in
+from North, South, East and West for the coming Congress.  Back came the
+office-seekers and the pathetic patient group whose claims were waiting
+for the passage of some impossible bill.
+
+There came, too, the sightseers and trippers, sweeping from one end of
+the town to the other, climbing the dome of the Capitol, walking down the
+steps of the Monument, venturing into the White House, piloted through
+the Bureau where the money is made, riding on "rubber-neck wagons,"
+sailing about in taxis, stampeding Mt. Vernon, bombarding Fort Myer, and
+doing it all gloriously under golden November skies.
+
+And because of the sightseers and statesmen, and the folk who had been
+away for the summer, the shops began to take on beauty.  Up F Street and
+around Fourteenth into H swept the eager procession, and all the windows
+were abloom for them.
+
+Roger walked, too, in the country.  In other lands, or at least so their
+poets have it, November is the month of chill and dreariness.  But to the
+city on the Potomac it comes with soft pink morning mists and toward
+sunset, with amethystine vistas.  And if, beyond the city, the fields are
+frosted, it is frost of a feathery whiteness which melts in the glory of
+a warmer noon.  And if the trees are bare, there is yet pale yellow under
+foot and pale rose, where the leaves wait for the winter winds which
+shall whirl them later in a mad dance like brown butterflies.  And
+there's the green of the pines, and the flaming red of five-fingered
+creepers.
+
+It was on a sunny November day, therefore, as he followed Rock Creek
+through the Park that Roger came to the old Mill where a little tea room
+supplied afternoon refreshment.
+
+As it was far away from car lines, its patronage came largely from those
+who arrived in motors or on horseback, and a few courageous pedestrians.
+
+Here Roger sat down to rest, ordering a rather substantial repast, for
+the long walk had made him hungry.
+
+It was while he waited that a big car arrived with five passengers.  He
+recognized Porter Bigelow at once, and there were besides two older men
+and two young women.
+
+The taller of the two young women had eyes that roved.  She had blue
+black hair, and she wore black--a small black hat with a thin curved
+plume, and a tailored suit cut on lines which accentuated her height and
+slenderness.  Her furs were of leopard skins.  Her cheeks were touched
+with high color under her veil.
+
+The other girl had also dark hair.  But she was small and bird-like.
+From head to foot she was in a deep dark pink that, in the wool of her
+coat and the chiffon of her veil, gave back the hue of the rose which was
+pinned to her muff.
+
+But it was on the girl in black that Roger fixed his eyes.  Where had he
+seen her?
+
+They chose a table near him, and passed within the touch of his hand.
+Porter did not recognize him.  The tall man in the old overcoat and soft
+hat was not linked in his memory with that moment of meeting in Mary's
+dining-room.
+
+"Everybody mixes up our names, Porter," the girl with the rose was saying
+as they sat down; "the girls did at school, didn't they, Lilah?"
+
+"Yes," the girl in black did not need many words with her eyes to talk
+for her.
+
+"Was it big Lilah and little Leila?" Porter asked.
+
+"No," the dark eyes above the leopard muff widened and held his gaze.
+"It was dear Leila, and dreadful Lilah.  I used to shock them, you know."
+
+The three men laughed.  "What did you do?" demanded Porter, leaning
+forward a little.
+
+Men always leaned toward Delilah Jeliffe.  She drew them even while she
+repelled.
+
+"I smoked cigarettes, for one thing," she said; "everybody does it now.
+But then--I came near being expelled for it."
+
+The little rose girl broke in hotly.  "I think it is horrid still,
+Lilah," she said.
+
+Lilah smiled and shrugged.  "But that wasn't the worst.  One day--I
+eloped."
+
+She was making them all listen.  The old men and the young one, and the
+man at the other table.
+
+"I eloped with a boy from Prep.  He was nineteen, and I was two years
+younger.  We started by moonlight in Romeo's motor car--it was great fun.
+But the clergyman wouldn't marry us.  I think he guessed that we were a
+pair of kiddies from school--and he scolded us and sent me back in a
+taxi----"
+
+The tall, thin old gentleman was protesting.  "My dear----"
+
+"Oh, you didn't know, Daddy darling," she said.  "I got back before I was
+discovered, and let myself in by the door I had unlocked.  But I couldn't
+keep it from the girls--it was such fun to make them--shiver."
+
+"And what became of Romeo?" Porter asked.
+
+"He found another Juliet--a lovely little blonde and they are living
+happy ever after."
+
+Leila's eyes were round.  "But I don't see," she began.
+
+"Of course you don't, duckie.  To me, the whole thing was an adventure
+along the road--to you, it would have been a heart-break."
+
+Her words came clearly to Roger.  That, then, was what love meant to some
+women--an adventure along the road.  One man served for pleasuring, until
+at some curve in the highway she met another.
+
+Lilah was challenging her audience.  "And now you see why I was dreadful
+Lilah.  I fit the name they had for me, don't I?"
+
+Her question was put at Porter, and he answered it.  "It is women who set
+the pace for us," he said; "if they adventure, we venture.  If they lead,
+we follow."
+
+General Dick broke in.  With his halo of white hair and his pink face, he
+looked like an indignant cherub.  "The way you young people treat serious
+subjects is appalling;" then he felt his little daughter's hand upon his
+arm.
+
+"Lilah is always saying things that she doesn't mean, Dad.  Please don't
+take her seriously."
+
+"Nobody takes me seriously," said Lilah, "and that's why nobody knows me
+as I really am."
+
+"I know you," said her father, "and you're like a little mare that I used
+to drive out on the ranch.  As long as I'd let her have her head, she was
+lovely.  But let me try to curb her, and she'd kick over the traces."
+
+They all laughed at that; then their tea came, and a great plate of
+toast, and the conversation grew intermittent and less interesting.
+
+Yet the man at the other table had his attention again arrested when
+Lilah said to Porter, as she drew on her gloves:
+
+"We are invited to Mary Ballard's for Thanksgiving, and you're to be
+there."
+
+"Yes--mother and father are going South, so I can escape the family
+feast."
+
+"Mary Ballard is--charming----"  It was said tentatively, with an upward
+sweep of her lashes.
+
+But Porter did not answer; and as he stood behind her chair, there was a
+deeper flush on his florid cheeks.  Mary's name he held in his heart.  It
+was rarely on his lips.
+
+
+Mary had not wanted Delilah and her father for Thanksgiving.  "But we
+can't have Leila and the General without them," she said to Barry, after
+a conversation with Leila over the telephone, "and it wouldn't seem like
+Thanksgiving without the Dicks."
+
+"Delilah," said Barry, comfortably, "is good fun.  I'm glad she is
+coming."
+
+"She may be good fun," said Mary, slowly, "but she isn't--our kind."
+
+"Leila said that to me," Barry told her.  "I don't quite see what you
+girls mean."
+
+"Well, you wouldn't," Mary agreed; "men don't see.  But I should think
+when you look at Leila you'd know the difference.  Leila is like a little
+wild rose, and Delilah Jeliffe is a--tulip."
+
+"I like tulips," murmured Barry, audaciously.
+
+Mary laughed.  What was the use?  Barry was Barry.  And Delilah Jeliffe
+would flit in and out of his life as other girls had flitted; but always
+there would be for him--Leila.
+
+"If you were a woman," she said, "you'd know by her clothes, and the pink
+of her cheeks, and by the way she does her hair--she's just a little too
+much of--everything--Barry."
+
+"There's just enough of Delilah Jeliffe," said Barry, "to keep a man
+guessing."
+
+"Guessing what?" Mary demanded with a spark in her eyes.
+
+"Oh, just guessing," easily.
+
+"Whether she likes you?"
+
+Barry nodded.
+
+"But why should you want to know, Barry?  You're not in love with her."
+
+His blue eyes danced.  "Love hasn't anything to do with it, little solemn
+sister; it's just in the--game."
+
+Later they had a tilt over inviting Mary's lodger.
+
+"It seems so inhospitable to let him spend the day up there alone."
+
+"I don't see how he could possibly expect to dine with us," Barry said,
+hotly.  "You don't know anything about him, Mary.  And I agree with
+Porter--a man's bank reference isn't sufficient for social recognition.
+And anyhow he may not have the right kind of clothes."
+
+"We are to have dinner at three o'clock," she said, "just as mother
+always had it on Thanksgiving Day.  If you don't want me to ask Roger
+Poole, I won't.  But I think you are an awful snob, Barry."
+
+Her eyes were blazing.
+
+"Now what have I done to deserve that?" her brother demanded.
+
+"You haven't treated him civilly," Mary said.  "In a sense he's a guest
+in our house, and you haven't been up to his rooms since he came--and
+he's a gentleman."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"Because I do."
+
+"Yet the other day you hinted that Delilah Jeliffe wasn't a lady, not in
+your sense of the word--and that I couldn't see the difference because
+was a man.  I'll let you have your opinion of Delilah Jeliffe if you'll
+let me have mine of Roger Poole."
+
+So Mary compromised by having Roger down for the evening.  "We shall be
+just a family party for dinner," she said.  "But later, we are asking
+some others for candle-lighting time.  We want everybody to come prepared
+to tell a story or recite, or to sing, or play--in the dark at first, and
+then with the candles."
+
+His pride urged him to refuse--to spurn this offer of hospitality from
+the girl who had once forgotten that he was in the house!
+
+But as he stood there on the threshold of the Tower Rooms, her smile
+seemed to draw him, her voice called him, and he was young--and
+desperately lonely.
+
+So as he dressed carefully on Thanksgiving afternoon, he had a sense of
+exhilaration.  For one night he would let himself go.  He would be
+himself.  No one should snub him.  Snubs came from self-consciousness--he
+who was above them need not see them.
+
+When at last he entered the drawing-room, it was unillumined except for
+the flickering flame of a fire of oak logs.  The guests, assembling
+wraith-like among the shadows, were given, each, an unlighted candle.
+
+Roger found a place in a big chair beside the piano, and sat there alone,
+interested and curious.  And presently Pittiwitz, stealing toward the
+hearth, arched her back under his hand, and he reached down and lifted
+her to his knee, where she stretched herself, sphinx-like, her amber eyes
+shining in the dusk.
+
+With the last guest seated, Barry stood before them, and gave the key to
+the situation.
+
+"Everybody is to light a candle with some stunt," he explained.  "You
+know the idea.  All of you have some parlor tricks, and you're to show
+them off."
+
+There were no immediate volunteers, so Barry pounced on Leila.
+
+"You begin," he said, and drew her into the circle of the firelight.
+
+She looked very childish and sweet as she stood there with her unlighted
+candle, and sang a lullaby.  Mary Ballard played her accompaniment
+softly, sitting so near to Roger in his dim corner that the folds of her
+velvet gown swept his foot.
+
+And when the song was finished, Leila touched a match to her candle and
+stood on tiptoe to set it on the corner of the mantel, where it glimmered
+bravely.
+
+General Dick and Mr. Jeliffe came next.  Solemnly they placed two
+cushions on the hearth-rug, solemnly they knelt thereon, facing each
+other.  Then intently and conscientiously they played the old game of
+"Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold."  The General's fat hands met
+Mr. Jeliffe's thin ones alternately and in unison.  Not a mistake did
+they make, and, ending out of breath, the General found it hard to rise,
+and had to be picked by Porter, like a plump feather pillow.
+
+And now the candles were three!
+
+Then Barry and Delilah danced, a dance which they had practiced together.
+It had in it just a hint of wildness, and just a hint of sophistication,
+and Delilah in her dress of sapphire chiffon, with its flaring tunic of
+silver net, seemed in the nebulous light like some strange bird of the
+night.
+
+And now the candles were five!
+
+Following, Leila went to the piano, and Porter and Mary gave a minuet.
+They had learned it at dancing-school, and it had been years since they
+had danced it.  But they did it very well; Porter's somewhat stiff
+bearing accorded with its stateliness, and Mary, having added to her
+green velvet gown a little Juliet cap of lace and a lace fan, showed the
+radiant, almost boyish beauty which had charmed Roger on the night of the
+wedding.
+
+His pulses throbbed as he watched her.  They were a well-matched pair,
+this young millionaire and the pretty maid.  And as their orderly steps
+went through the dance, so would their orderly lives, if they married,
+continue to the end.  But what could Porter Bigelow teach Mary Ballard of
+the things which touch the stars?
+
+And now the candles were seven!  And the spirit of the carnival was upon
+the company.  Song was followed by story, and story by song--until at
+last the room seemed to swim in a golden mist.
+
+And through that mist Mary saw Roger Poole!  He was leaning forward a
+little, and there was about him the air of a man who waited.
+
+She spoke impetuously.
+
+"Mr. Poole," she said, "please----"
+
+There was not a trace of awkwardness, not a hint of self-consciousness in
+his manner as he answered her.
+
+"May I sit here?" he asked.  "You see, my pussy cat holds me, and as I
+shall tell you about a cat, she gives the touch of local color."
+
+And then he began, his right hand resting on the gray cat's head, his
+left upon his knee.
+
+He used no gestures, yet as he went on, the room became still with the
+stillness of a captured audience.  Here was no stumbling elocution, but a
+controlled and perfect method, backed by a voice which soared and sang
+and throbbed and thrilled--the voice either of a great orator, or of a
+great actor.
+
+The story that he told was of Whittington and his cat.  But it was not
+the old nursery rhyme.  He gave it as it is written by one of England's
+younger poets.  Since he lacked the time for it all, he sketched the
+theme, rounding it out here and there with a verse--and it seemed to Mary
+that, as he spoke, all the bells of London boomed!
+
+  "'_Flos Mercatorum_,' moaned the bell of All Hallowes,
+  'There was he an orphan, O, a little lad, alone!'
+  'Then we all sang,' echoed happy St. Saviour's,
+  'Called him and lured him, and made him our own.'"
+
+And now they saw the little lad stealing toward the big city, saw all the
+color and glow as he entered upon its enchantment, saw his meeting with
+the green-gowned Alice, saw him cold and hungry, faint and footsore, saw
+him aswoon on a door-step.
+
+  "'Alice,' roared a voice, and then, O like a lilied angel,
+  Leaning from the lighted door, a fair face unafraid,
+  Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise
+  Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!"
+
+Touching now a lighter note, his voice laughed through the lovely lines;
+of the ship which was to sail beyond the world; of how each man staked
+such small wealth as he possessed; "for in those days Marchaunt
+adventurers shared with their prentices the happy chance of each new
+venture."
+
+But Whittington had nothing to give.  "Not a groat," he tells sweet
+Alice.  "I staked my last groat in a cat!"
+
+  "'Ay, but we need a cat,'
+  The Captain said.  So when the painted ship
+  Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames,
+  A gray tail waved upon the misty poop,
+  And Whittington had his venture on the seas!"
+
+
+The ringing words brought tumultuous applause.  Pittiwitz, startled, sat
+up and blinked.  People bent to each other, asking: "Who is this Roger
+Poole?"  Under his breath Barry was saying, boyishly, "Gee!"  He might
+still wonder about Mary's lodger, he would never again look down on him.
+And Delilah Jeliffe sitting next to Barry murmured, "I've heard that
+voice before--but where?"
+
+Again the bells boomed as the story swept on to the fortune which came to
+the prentice lad--the price paid for his cat in Barbary by a king whose
+house was rich in gems but sorely plagued with rats and mice.
+
+Then Whittington's offer of his wealth to Alice, her refusal, and so--to
+the end.
+
+  "'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's.
+  'Tell it and be quick,' laughed the prentices below!
+  'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!
+  Peal for a wedding,' said the Big Bell of Bow."
+
+
+Roger stopped there, and with Pittiwitz in his arms, rose to light his
+candle.  All about him people were saying things, but their words seemed
+to come to him through a beating darkness.  There was only one
+face--Mary's, and she was leaning toward him, or was it above him?  "It
+was wonderful," she said.
+
+"It is a great poem."
+
+"I don't mean that--it was the way you--gave it."
+
+Outwardly calm, he carried his candle and set it in its place.
+
+Then he came back to Mary--Mary with the shining eyes.  This was his
+night!  "You liked it, then?"
+
+For a moment she did not speak, then she said again, "It was wonderful."
+
+There were other people about them now, and Roger met them with the ease
+of a man of the world.  Even Barry had to admit that his manners were
+irreproachable, and his clothes.  As for his looks, he was not to be
+matched with Mary's auburn Apollo--one cannot compare a royal stag and a
+tawny-maned lion!
+
+During the rest of the program, Roger sat enthroned at Mary's side, and
+listened.  He watched the candles, an increasing row of little pointed
+lights.  He went down to supper, and again sat beside Mary--and knew not
+what he ate.  He saw Porter's hot eyes upon him.  He knew that to-morrow
+he must doff his honors and be as he had been before.  However, "who
+knows but the world may end to-night," he told himself, desperately.
+
+Thus he played with Fate, and Fate, turning the tables, brought him at
+last to Delilah Jeliffe as the guests were saying "good-bye."
+
+"Somewhere I've heard your voice," she said with the upsweep of her
+lashes.  "It isn't the kind that one is likely to forget."
+
+"Yet you have forgotten," he parried.
+
+"I shall remember," she said.  "I want to remember--and I shall want to
+hear it again."
+
+He shook his head.  "It was my--swan song----"
+
+"Why?"
+
+He shrugged.  "One isn't always in the mood----"
+
+And now it was she who shook her head.  "It isn't a mood with you, it's
+your life."
+
+She had him there, so he carried the conversation lightly to another
+topic.  "I had not thought to give Whittington until I saw Pittiwitz."
+
+"And Mary's green gown?"
+
+Again he parried.  "It was dark.  I could not see the color of her gown."
+
+"But 'love has eyes.'"  The words were light and she meant them lightly.
+And she went away laughing.
+
+But Roger did not laugh.
+
+And when Mary came to look for him he was gone.
+
+And up-stairs, his evening stripped of its glamour, he told himself that
+he had been a fool!  The world would _not_ end to-night.  He had to live
+the appointed length of his days, through all the dreary years.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+_In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads._
+
+
+On Christmas Eve, Mary and Susan Jenks brought up to Roger a little
+tree.  It was just a fir plume, but it was gay with tinsel and spicy
+with the fragrance of the woods, and it was topped by a wee wax angel.
+
+In vain Mary and Barry and even Aunt Isabelle had urged Roger to join
+their merrymaking downstairs.  Aunt Frances, having delayed her trip
+abroad until January, was coming; and except for Leila and General Dick
+and Porter Bigelow, it was to be strictly a family affair.
+
+But Roger had refused.  "I'm not one of you," he had told Mary.  "I'm a
+bee, not a butterfly, and I shouldn't have joined you on Thanksgiving
+night.  When you're alone, if I may, I'll come down--but please--not
+with your guests."
+
+He had not joined them often, however, and he had never again shown the
+mood which had possessed him when his voice had charmed them.  Hence
+they grew, as the days went on, to know him as quiet, self-contained
+man, whose eyes burned now and then, when some subject was broached
+which moved him, but who, for the most part, showed at least an outward
+serenity.
+
+They grew to like him, too, and to depend upon him.  Even Aunt Isabelle
+went to him for advice.  He had such an attentive manner, and when he
+spoke, he gave his opinion with an air of comforting authority.
+
+But always he avoided Porter Bigelow, he avoided Leila, and most of
+all, he avoided Delilah Jeliffe, although that persistent young person
+would have invaded the Tower Rooms, if Mary had not warned her away.
+
+"He is very busy, Lilah," she said, "and when he isn't, he comes down
+here."
+
+"Don't you ever go up?" Delilah's tone was curious.
+
+"No," said Mary, "Why should I?"
+
+Delilah shrugged.  "If a man," she said, "had looked at me as he
+looked at you on Thanksgiving night, I should be, to say the
+least--interested----"
+
+Mary's head was held high.  "I like Roger Poole," she said, "and he's a
+gentleman.  But I'm not thinking about the look in his eyes."
+
+Yet she did think of it, after all, for such seed does the Delilah-type
+of woman sow.  She thought of him, but only with a little wonder--for
+Mary was as yet unawakened--Porter's passionate pleading, the magic of
+Roger Poole's voice--these had not touched the heart which still waited.
+
+"Since Mahomet wouldn't come to the mountain," Mary remarked to her
+lodger as Susan deposited her burden, "the mountain had to come to
+Mahomet.  And here's a bit of mistletoe for your door, and of holly for
+your window."
+
+He took the wreaths from her.  "You are like the spirit of Christmas in
+your green gown."
+
+"This?"  She was wearing the green velvet--with a low collar of lace.
+"Oh, I've had this for ages, but I like it----"  She broke off to say,
+wistfully, "It seems as if you ought to come down--as if up here you'd
+be lonely."
+
+Susan Jenks, hanging the mistletoe over the door, was out of range of
+their voices.
+
+"I am lonely," Roger said, "but now with my little tree, I shall forget
+everything but your kindness."
+
+"Don't you love Christmas?" Mary asked him.  "It's such a friendly
+time, with everybody thinking of everybody else.  I had to hunt a lot
+before I found the wax angel.  It needed such a little one--but I
+always want one on my tree.  When I was a child, mother used to tell me
+that the angel was bringing a message of peace and good will to our
+house."
+
+"If the little angel brings me your good will, I shall feel that he has
+performed his mission."
+
+"Oh, but you have it," brightly.  "We are all so glad you are here.
+Even Barry, and Barry hated the idea at first of our having a lodger.
+But he likes you."
+
+"And I like Barry," he said.  "He is youth--incarnate."
+
+"He's a dear," she agreed.  Then a shadow came into her eyes.  "But
+he's such a boy, and--and he's spoiled.  Everybody's too good to him.
+Mother was--and father, though father tried not to be.  And Leila is,
+and Constance--and Aunt Isabelle excuses him, and even Susan Jenks."
+
+Susan Jenks, having hung all the wreaths, had departed, and was not
+there to hear this mention of her shortcomings.
+
+"I see--and you?" smiling.
+
+She drew a long breath.  "I'm trying to play Big Sister--and sometimes
+I'm afraid I'm more like a big brother--I haven't the--patience."
+
+His attentive face invited further confidence.  It was the face of a
+man who had listened to many confidences, and instinctively she felt
+that others had been helped by him.
+
+"You see I want Barry to pass the Bar examination.  All of the men of
+our family have been lawyers, But Barry won't study, and he has taken a
+position in the Patent Office.  He's wasting these best years as a
+clerk."
+
+Then she remembered, and begged, "Forgive me----"
+
+"There's nothing to forgive," he said.  "I suppose I am wasting my
+years as a clerk in the Treasury Department--but there's this
+difference, your brother's life is before him--mine is behind me.  His
+ambitions are yet to be fulfilled.  I have no--ambitions."
+
+"You don't mean that--you can't mean it?"
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Because you're a man!  Oh, I should have been the man of our
+family--and Barry and Constance should have been the girls."  Her eyes
+blazed.
+
+"You think then, as I heard you say the other night on the stairs, that
+the world is ours; yet we men let it stand still."
+
+Her head went up.  "Yes.  Perhaps you do have to fight for what you
+get.  But I'd rather die fighting than smothered."
+
+He laughed a good boyish laugh.  "Does Barry know that you feel that
+way?"
+
+"I'm afraid," penitently, "that I make him feel it, sometimes.  And he
+doesn't know that it is because I care so much.  That it is because I
+want him to be like--father."
+
+He smiled into her misty eyes.  "Perhaps if you weren't so militant--in
+your methods----"
+
+"Oh, that's the trouble with Barry.  Everybody's too good to him.  And
+when I try to counteract it, Barry says that I nag.  But he doesn't
+understand."
+
+Her voice broke, and by some subtle intuition he was aware that her
+burden was heavier than she was willing to admit.
+
+She stood up and held out her hand.  "Thank you so much--for letting me
+talk to you."
+
+He took her hand and stood looking down at her.
+
+"Will you remember that always--when you need to talk things out--that
+the Tower Room--is waiting?"
+
+And now there were steps dancing up the stairs, and Barry whirled in
+with Little-Lovely Leila.
+
+"Mary," he said, "we are ready to light the tree, and Aunt Frances is
+having fits because you aren't down.  You know she always has fits when
+things are delayed.  Poole, you are a selfish hermit to stay off up
+here with a tree of your own."
+
+Roger, who had stepped forward to speak to Leila, shook his head.  "I
+don't deserve to be invited.  And you're all too good to me."
+
+"Oh, but we're not," Leila spoke in her pretty childish way; "we'd love
+to have you down.  Everybody's just crazy about you, Mr. Poole."
+
+They shouted at that.
+
+"Leila," Barry demanded, "are you crazy about him?  Tell me now and get
+the agony over."
+
+Leila, tilting herself on her pink slipper toes almost crowed with
+delight at his teasing: "I said, _everybody_----"
+
+Barry advanced to where she stood in the doorway.
+
+"Leila Dick," he announced, "you're under the mistletoe, and you can't
+escape, and I'm going to kiss you.  It's my ancient and hereditary
+privilege--isn't it, Poole?  It's my ancient and hereditary privilege,"
+he repeated, and now he was bending over her.
+
+"Barry," Mary expostulated, "behave yourself."
+
+But it was Leila who stopped him.  Her little hands held him off, her
+face was white.  "Barry," she whispered, "Barry--_please_----"
+
+He dropped her hands.
+
+"You blessed baby," he said, with all his laughter gone.  "You're like
+a little sweet saint in an altar shrine!"
+
+Then, with another sudden change of mood, he whirled her away as
+quickly as he had come, and Mary, following, stopped on the threshold
+to say to Roger:
+
+"We shall all be away to-morrow.  We are to dine at General Dick's.
+But I am going to church in the morning--the six o'clock service.  It's
+lovely with the snow and the stars.  There'll be just Barry and me.
+Won't you come?"
+
+He hesitated.  Then, "No," he said, "no," and lest she should think him
+unappreciative, he added, "I never go to church."
+
+She came back to him and stood by the fire.  "Don't you believe in it?"
+She was plainly troubled for him.  "Don't you believe in the angels and
+the shepherds, and the wise men, and the Babe in the Manger?"
+
+"No," he said dully, "I don't believe."
+
+"Oh," it was almost a cry, "then what does Christmas mean to you?  What
+can it mean to anybody who doesn't believe in the Babe and the Star in
+the East?"
+
+"It means this, Mary Ballard," he said, impetuously, "that out of all
+my unbelief--I believe in you--in your friendliness.  And that is my
+star shining just now in the darkness."
+
+She would have been less than a woman if she had not been thrilled by
+such a tribute.  So she blushed shyly.  "I'm glad," she said and smiled
+up at him.
+
+But as she went down-stairs, the smile faded.  It was as if the shadow
+of the Tower Rooms were upon her.  As if the loneliness and sadness of
+Roger Poole had become hers.  As if his burden was added to her other
+burdens.
+
+Aunt Frances, more regal than ever in gold and amethyst brocade, was
+presiding over a mountainous pile of white boxes, behind which the
+unlighted tree spread its branches.
+
+"My child," she said reprovingly, as Mary entered, "I wonder if you
+were ever in time for anything."
+
+And Porter whispered in Mary's ear as he led her to the piano: "Is this
+a merry Christmas or a Contrary-Mary Christmas?  You look as if you had
+the weight of the world on your shoulders."
+
+She shook her head.  Tears were very near the surface.  He saw it and
+was jealously unhappy.  What had brought her in this mood from the
+Tower Rooms?
+
+And now Barry turned off the lights, and in the darkness Mary struck
+the first chords and began to sing, "Holy Night----"
+
+As her voice throbbed through the stillness, little stars shone out
+upon the tree until it was all in shining glory.
+
+Up-stairs, Roger heard Mary singing.  He went to his window and drew
+back the curtains.  Outside the world was wrapped in snow.  The lights
+from the lower windows shone on the fountain, and showed the little
+bronze boy in a winding sheet of white.
+
+But it was not the little bronze boy that Roger Poole saw.  It was
+another boy--himself--singing in a dim church in a big city, and his
+soul was in the words.  And when he knelt to pray, it seemed to him
+that the whole world prayed.  He was bathed in reverence.  In his
+boyish soul there was no hint of unbelief--no doubt of the divine
+mystery.
+
+He saw himself again in a church.  And now it was he who spoke to the
+people of the Shepherds and the Star.  And he knew that he was making
+them believe.  That he was bringing to them the assurance which
+possessed his own soul--and again there were candles on the altar, and
+again he sang, and the choir boys sang, and the song was the one that
+Mary Ballard was singing----
+
+He saw himself once more in a church.  But this time there was no
+singing.  There were no candles, no light except such as came faintly
+through the leaded panes.  He was alone in the dimness, and he stood in
+the pulpit and looked around at the empty pews.  Then the light went
+out behind the windows, and he knelt in the darkness; but not to pray.
+His head was hidden in his arms.  Since then he had never shed a tear,
+and he had never gone to church.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+Mary's song was followed by carols in which the other voices
+joined--Porter's and Barry's and Leila's; General Dick's breathy tenor,
+Aunt Isabelle's quaver, Aunt Frances' dominant note--with Susan Jenks
+and the colored maid who helped her on such occasions, piping up like
+two melodious blackbirds in the hall.
+
+Then General Dick played Santa Claus, handing out the parcels with
+felicitous little speeches.
+
+Constance had sent a big box from London.  There were fads and
+fripperies from Grace Clendenning in Paris, while Aunt Frances had
+evidently raided Fifth Avenue and had brought away its treasures.
+
+"It looks like a French shop," said Leila, happy in her own gifts of
+gloves and silk stockings and slipper buckles and beads, and the
+crowning bliss of a little pearl heart from Barry.
+
+Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds
+and emeralds.
+
+Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty.  "It's a
+genuine antique?"
+
+He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation.
+
+Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's.  She belonged
+to an old French family.  My grandfather met her when he was in the
+diplomatic service.  He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my
+hair."
+
+"It's a lovely thing.  But--Porter--it mustn't bind me to anything.  I
+want to be free."
+
+"You are free.  Do you remember when you were a kiddie that I gave you
+a penny ring out of my popcorn bag?  You didn't think that ring tied
+you to anything, did you?  Well, this is just another penny prize
+package."
+
+So she wore it on her right hand and when he said "Good-night," he
+lifted the hand and kissed it.
+
+"Girl, dear, may this be the merriest Christmas ever!"
+
+And now the tears overflowed.  They were alone in the lower hall and
+there was no one to see.  "Oh, Porter," she wailed, "I'm missing
+Constance dreadfully--it isn't Christmas--without her.  It came over me
+all at once--when I was trying to think that I was happy."
+
+"Poor little Contrary Mary--if you'd only let me take care of you."
+
+She shook her head.  "I didn't mean to be--silly, Porter."
+
+"You're not silly."  Then after a silence, "Shall you go to early
+service in the morning?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"May I go?"
+
+"Of course.  Barry's going, too."
+
+"You mean that you won't let me go with you alone."
+
+"I mean nothing of the kind.  Barry always goes.  He used to do it to
+please mother, and now he does it--for remembrance."
+
+"I'm so jealous of my moments alone with you.  Why can't Leila stay
+with you to-night, then there will be four of us, and I can have you to
+myself.  I can bring the car, if you'd rather."
+
+"No, I like to walk.  It's so lovely and solemn."
+
+"Be sure to ask Leila."
+
+She promised, and he went away, having to look in at a dance given by
+one of his mother's friends; and Mary, returning to join the others,
+pondered, a little wistfully, on the fact that Porter Bigelow should be
+so eager for a privilege which Roger Poole had just declined.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+_In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and
+is Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon
+the Stairs._
+
+
+Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year.  But before she went she
+sounded Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?"
+
+"About Porter?"
+
+"Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him.  Anybody can see that he's
+dead in love with her, Isabelle."
+
+"I don't think Mary wants to marry anybody.  She's an independent
+little creature.  She should have been the boy, Frances."
+
+"I wish to heaven she had," Aunt Frances' tone was fervent.  "I can't
+see any future for Barry, unless he marries Leila.  If he were not so
+irresponsible, I might do something for him.  But Barry is such a
+will-o'-the-wisp."
+
+Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced
+upon her.
+
+"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible.  He's----  Did you notice
+on Christmas Day, Isabelle--that after dinner he wasn't himself?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle had noticed.  And it was not the first time.  Her quick
+eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden.  She had not
+needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that
+house.
+
+Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips.  She would not tell Frances
+anything.  They were dear children.
+
+"He's just a boy, Frances," she said, deprecatingly, "and I am sorry
+that General Dick put temptation in his way."
+
+"Don't blame the General.  If Barry's weak, no one can make him strong
+but himself.  I wish he had some of Porter Bigelow's steadiness.  Mary
+won't look at Porter, and he's dead in love with her."
+
+"Perhaps in time she may."
+
+"Mary's like her father," Aunt Frances said shortly.  "John Ballard
+might have been rich when he died, if he hadn't been such a dreamer.
+Mary calls herself practical--but her head is full of moonshine."
+
+Aunt Frances made this arraignment with an uncomfortable memory of a
+conversation with Mary the day before.  They had been shopping, and had
+lunched together at a popular tea room.  It was while they sat in their
+secluded corner that Aunt Frances had introduced in a roundabout way
+the topic which obsessed her.
+
+"I am glad that Constance is so happy, Mary."
+
+"She ought to be," Mary responded; "it's her honeymoon."
+
+"If you would follow her example and marry Porter Bigelow, my mind
+would be at rest."
+
+"But I don't want to marry Porter, Aunt Frances.  I don't want to marry
+anybody."
+
+Aunt Frances raised her gold lorgnette, "If you don't marry," she
+demanded, "how do you expect to live?"
+
+"I don't understand."
+
+"I mean who is going to pay your bills for the rest of your life?
+Barry isn't making enough to support you, and I can't imagine that
+you'd care to be dependent on Gordon Richardson.  And the house is
+rapidly losing its value.  The neighborhood isn't what it was when your
+father bought it, and you can't rent rooms when nobody wants to come
+out here to live.  And then what?  It's a woman's place to marry when
+she meets a man who can take care of her--and you'll find that you
+can't pick Porter Bigelows off every bush--not in Washington."
+
+Thus spoke Worldly-Wisdom, not mincing words, and back came Youth and
+Romance, passionately.  "Aunt Frances, a woman hasn't any right to
+marry just because she thinks it is her best chance.  She hasn't any
+right to make a man feel that he's won her when she's just little and
+mean and mercenary."
+
+"That sounds all right," said the indignant dame opposite her, "but as
+I said before, if you don't marry,--what are you going to do?"
+
+Faced by that cold question, Mary met it defiantly.  "If the worst
+comes, I can work.  Other women work."
+
+"You haven't the training or the experience." Aunt Frances told her
+coldly; "don't be silly, Mary.  You couldn't earn your shoe-strings."
+
+And thus having said all there was to be said, the two ate their salad
+with diminished appetite, and rode home in a taxi in stiff silence.
+
+
+Aunt Frances' mind roamed back to Aunt Isabelle, and fixed on her as a
+scapegoat.  "She's like you, Isabelle," she said, "with just the
+difference between the ideals of twenty years ago and to-day.  You
+haven't either of you an idea of the world as a real place--you make
+romance the rule of your lives--and I'd like to know what you've gotten
+out of it, or what she will."
+
+"I'm not afraid for Mary."  There was a defiant ring in Aunt Isabelle's
+voice which amazed Aunt Frances.  "She'll make things come right.  She
+has what I never had, Frances.  She has strength and courage."
+
+It was this conversation with Aunt Frances which caused Mary, in the
+weeks that followed, to bend for hours over a yellow pad on which she
+made queer hieroglyphics.  And it was through these hieroglyphics that
+she entered upon a new phase of her friendship with Roger Poole.
+
+He had gone to work one morning, haggard after a sleepless night.
+
+As he approached the Treasury, the big building seemed to loom up
+before him like a prison.  What, after all, were those thousands who
+wended their way every morning to the great beehives of Uncle Sam but
+slaves chained to an occupation which was deadening?
+
+He flung the question later at the little stenographer who sat next to
+him.  "Miss Terry," he asked, "how long have you been here?"
+
+She looked up at him, brightly.  She was short and thin, with a
+sprinkle of gray in her hair.  But she was well-groomed and nicely
+dressed in her mannish silk shirt and gray tailored skirt.
+
+"Twenty years," she said, snapping a rubber band about her note-book.
+
+"And always at this desk?"
+
+"Oh, dear, no.  I came in at nine hundred, and now I am getting twelve
+hundred."
+
+"But always in this room?"
+
+She nodded.  "Yes.  And it is very nice.  Most of the people have been
+here as long as I, and some of them much longer.  There's Major Orr,
+for example, he has been here since just after the War."
+
+"Do you ever feel as if you were serving sentence?"
+
+She laughed.  She was not troubled by a vivid imagination.  "It really
+isn't bad for a woman.  There aren't many places with as short hours
+and as good pay."
+
+For a woman?  But for a man?  He turned back to his desk.  What would
+he be after twenty years of this?  He waked every morning with the
+day's routine facing him--knowing that not once in the eight hours
+would there be a demand upon his mentality, not once would there be the
+thrill of real accomplishment.
+
+At noon when he saw Miss Terry strew bird seed on the broad window sill
+for the sparrows, he likened it to the diversions of a prisoner in his
+cell.  And, when he ate lunch with a group of fellow clerks in a cheap
+restaurant across the way, he wondered, as they went back, why they
+were spared the lockstep.
+
+In this mood he left the office at half-past four, and passing the
+place where he usually ate, inexpensively, he entered a luxurious
+up-town hotel.  There he read the papers until half-past six; then
+dined in a grill room which permitted informal dress.
+
+Coming out later, he met Barry coming in, linked arm in arm with two
+radiant youths of his own kind and class.  Musketeers of modernity,
+they found their adventures on the city streets, in cafes and cabarets,
+instead of in field and forest and on the battle-field.
+
+Barry, with a flower in his buttonhole, welcomed Roger uproariously.
+"Here's Whittington," he said.  "You ought to hear his poem, fellows,
+about a little cat.  He had us all hypnotized the other night."
+
+Roger glanced at him sharply.  His exaggerated manner, the looseness of
+his phrasing, the flush on his cheeks were in strange contrast to his
+usual frank, clean boyishness.
+
+"Come on, Poole," Barry urged, "we'll motor out in Jerry's car to the
+Country Club, and you can give it to us out there--about Whittington
+and the little cat."
+
+Roger declined, and Barry took quick offense.  "Oh, well, if you don't
+want to, you needn't," he said; "four's a crowd, anyhow--come on,
+fellows."
+
+Roger, vaguely troubled, watched him until he was lost in the crowd,
+then sighed and turned his steps homeward.
+
+As Roger ascended to his Tower, the house seemed strangely silent.
+Pittiwitz was asleep beside the pot of pink hyacinths.  She sat up,
+yawned, and welcomed him with a little coaxing note.  When he had
+settled himself in his big chair, she came and curled in the corner of
+his arm, and again went to sleep.
+
+Deep in his reading, he was roused an hour later by a knock at his door.
+
+He opened it, to find Mary on the threshold.
+
+"May I come in?" she asked, and she seemed breathless.  "It is Susan's
+night out, and Aunt Isabelle is at the opera with some old friends.
+Barry expected to be here with me, but he hasn't come.  And I sat in
+the dining-room--and waited," she shivered, "until I couldn't stand it
+any more."
+
+She tried to laugh, but he saw that she was very pale.
+
+"Please don't think I'm a coward," she begged.  "I've never been that.
+But I seemed suddenly to have a sort of nervous panic, and I thought
+perhaps you wouldn't mind if I sat with you--until Barry--came----"
+
+"I'm glad he didn't come, if it is going to give me an evening with
+you."  He drew a chair to the fire.
+
+They had talked of many things when she asked, suddenly, "Mr. Poole, I
+wonder if you can tell me--about the examinations for stenographers in
+the Departments--are they very rigid?"
+
+"Not very.  Of course they require speed and accuracy."
+
+She sighed.  "I'm accurate enough, but I wonder if I can ever acquire
+speed."
+
+He stared.  "You----?"
+
+She nodded.  "I haven't mentioned it to any one.  One's family is so
+hampering sometimes--they'd all object--except Aunt Isabelle, but I
+want to be prepared to work, if I ever need to earn my living."
+
+"May you never need it," he said, fervently, visions rising of little
+Miss Terry and her machine-made personality.  What had this girl with
+the fair hair and the shining eyes to do with the blank life between
+office walls?
+
+"May you never need it," he repeated.  "A woman's place is in the
+home--it's a man's place to fight the world."
+
+"But if there isn't a man to fight a woman's battles?"
+
+"There will always be some one to fight yours."
+
+"You mean that I can--marry?  But what if I don't care to marry merely
+to be--supported?"
+
+"There would have to be other things, of course," gravely.
+
+"What, for example?"
+
+"Love."
+
+"You mean the 'honor and obey' kind?  But don't want that when I marry.
+I want a man to say to me, 'Come, let us fight the battle together.  If
+it's defeat, we'll go down together.  If its victory, we'll win.'"
+
+This was to him a strange language, yet there was that about it which
+thrilled him.
+
+Yet he insisted, dogmatically, "There are men enough in the world to
+take care of the women, and the women should let them."
+
+"No, they should not.  Suppose I should not marry.  Must I let Barry
+take care of me, or Constance--and go on as Aunt Isabelle has, eating
+the bread of dependence?"
+
+"But you?  Why, one only needs to look at you to know that there'll be
+a live-happy-ever-after ending to your romance."
+
+"That's what they thought about Aunt Isabelle.  But she lost her lover,
+and she couldn't love again.  And if she had had an absorbing
+occupation, she would have been saved so much humiliation, so much
+heart-break."
+
+She told him the story with its touching pathos.  "And think of it,"
+she ended, "right here in our garden by the fountain, she saw him for
+the last time."
+
+Chilled by the ghostly breath of dead romance, they sat for a while in
+silence, then Mary said: "So that's why I'm trying to learn
+something--that will have an earning value.  I can sing and play a
+little, but not enough to make--money."
+
+She sighed, and he set himself to help her.
+
+"The quickest way," he said, "to acquire speed, is to have some one
+read to you."
+
+"Aunt Isabelle does sometimes, but it tires her."
+
+"Let me do it.  I should never tire."
+
+"Oh, wouldn't you mind?  Could we practice a little--now?"
+
+And so it began--the friendship in which he served her, and loved the
+serving.
+
+He read, slowly, liking to see, when he raised his eyes, the slim white
+figure in the big chair, the firelight on the absorbed face.
+
+Thus the time slipped by, until with a start, Mary looked up.
+
+"I don't see what is keeping Barry."
+
+Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell.  "I saw him
+down-town.  I think he was on his way to the Country Club.  He had been
+dining with some friends."
+
+"Men friends?"
+
+"Yes.  He called one of them Jerry."
+
+He saw the color rise in her face.  "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry
+promised Constance he'd let those boys alone."
+
+Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling
+with a gripping fear.
+
+This, then, was the burden she was bearing?  And what a brave little
+thing she was to face the world with her head up.
+
+"Would you like to have me call the Country Club--I might be able to
+get your brother on the wire."
+
+"Oh; if you would."
+
+But he was saved the trouble.  For, even while they spoke of him, Barry
+came, and Mary went down to him.
+
+A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice
+was singing--a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout.
+
+Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the
+railing.  Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother
+up the lower flight.  Barry had his arm around her, but her face was
+turned from him, and her head drooped.
+
+Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to
+the threshold of the boy's room.  The door opened and shut, and she was
+alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that
+strange song.
+
+Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then
+turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by
+her upraised arm.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+_In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place;
+and in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone._
+
+
+Whatever Delilah Jeliffe might lack, it was not originality.  The
+apartment which she chose for her winter in Washington was like any
+other apartment when she went into it, but the changes which she
+made--the things which she added and the things which she took away,
+stamped it at once with her own individuality.
+
+The peacock screen before the fireplace, the cushions of sapphire and
+emerald and old gold on the couch, the mantel swept of all ornament
+except a seven-branched candlestick; these created the first
+impression.  Then one's eyes went to an antique table on which a
+crystal ball, upborne by three bronze monkeys, seemed to gather to
+itself mysteriously all the glow of firelight and candlelight and rich
+color.  At the other end of the table was a low bowl, filled always
+with small saffron-hued roses.
+
+In this room, one morning, late in Lent, Leila Dick sat, looking as out
+of place as an English daisy in a tropical jungle.
+
+Leila did not like the drawn curtains and the dimness.  Outside the sun
+was shining, gloriously, and the sky was a deep and lovely blue.
+
+She was glad when Lilah sent for her.
+
+"You are to come right to her room," the maid announced.
+
+"Heavens, child," said the Delilah-beauty, who was combing her hair, "I
+didn't promise to be up with the birds."
+
+"The birds were up long ago," Leila perched herself on an old English
+love-seat.  "We're to have lunch before we go to Fort Myer, and it is
+almost one now."
+
+Lilah yawned, "Is it?" and went on combing her hair with the air of one
+who has hours before her.  She wore a silken négligée of flamingo red
+which matched her surroundings, for this room was as flaming as the
+other was subdued.  Yet the effect was not that of crude color; it was,
+rather, that of color intensified deliberately to produce a contrast.
+Delilah's bedroom was high noon under a blazing sun, the sitting-room
+was midnight under the stars.
+
+With her black hair at last twisted into wonderful coils, Delilah
+surveyed her face reflectively in the mirror, and having decided that
+she needed no further aid from the small jars on her dressing table,
+she turned to her friend.
+
+"What shall I wear, Leila?"
+
+"If I told you," was the calm response, "you wouldn't wear it."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "No, I wouldn't.  I simply have to think such things
+out for myself.  But I meant what kind of clothes--dress up or motor
+things?"
+
+"Porter will take us out in his car.  You'll need your heavy coat, and
+something good-looking underneath, for lunch, you know."
+
+"Is Mary Ballard going?"
+
+"Of course.  We shouldn't get Porter's car if she weren't."
+
+"Mary wasn't with us the day we had tea with him in the Park."
+
+"No, but she was asked.  Porter never leaves her out."
+
+"Are they engaged?"
+
+"No, Mary won't be."
+
+"She'll never get a better chance," Delilah reflected.  "She isn't
+pretty, and she's rather old style."
+
+Leila blazed.  "She's beautiful----"
+
+"To you, duckie, because you love her.  But the average man wouldn't
+call Mary Ballard beautiful."
+
+"I don't care--the un-average one would.  And Mary Ballard wouldn't
+look at an ordinary man."
+
+"No man is ordinary when he is in love."
+
+"Oh, with you," Leila's tone was scornful, "love's just a game."
+
+Lilah rose, crossed the room with swift steps, and kissed her.  "Don't
+let me ruffle your plumage, Jenny Wren," she said; "I'm a screaming
+peacock this morning."
+
+"What's the matter?"
+
+"I'm not the perfect success I planned to be.  Oh, I can see it.  I've
+been here for three months, and people stare at me, but they don't call
+on me--not the ones I want to know.  And it's because I am
+too--emphasized.  In New York you have to be emphatic to be anything at
+all.  Otherwise you are lost in the crowd.  That's why Fifth Avenue is
+full of people in startling clothes.  In the mob you won't be singled
+out simply for your pretty face--there are too many pretty faces; so it
+is the woman who strikes some high note of conspicuousness who attracts
+attention.  But you're like a flock of cooing doves, you Washington
+girls.  You're as natural and frank and unaffected as a--a covey of
+partridges.  I believe I am almost jealous of your Mary Ballard this
+morning."
+
+"Not because of Porter?"
+
+"Not because of any man.  But there are things about her which I can't
+acquire.  I've the money and the clothes and the individuality.  But
+there's a simplicity about her, a directness, that comes from years of
+association with things I haven't had.  Before I came here, I thought
+money could buy anything.  But it can't.  Mary Ballard couldn't be
+anything else.  And I--I can be anything from a siren to a soubrette,
+but I can't be a lady--not the kind that you are--and Mary Ballard."
+
+Saying which, the tropic creature in flamingo red sat down beside the
+cooing dove, and continued:
+
+"You were right just now, when you said that the un-average man would
+love Mary Ballard.  Porter Bigelow loves her, and he tops all the other
+men I've met.  And he'd never love me.  He will laugh with me and joke
+with me, and if he wasn't in love with Mary, he might flirt with
+me--but I'm not his kind--and he knows it."
+
+She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.  "There are other fish in the
+sea, of course, and Porter Bigelow is Mary's.  But I give you my word,
+Leila Dick, that when I catch sight of his blessed red head towering
+above the others--like a lion-hearted Richard, I can't see anybody
+else."
+
+For the first time since she had known her, Leila was drawn to the
+other by a feeling of sympathetic understanding.
+
+"Are you in love with him, Lilah?" she asked; timidly.
+
+Lilah stood up, stretching her hands above her head.  "Who knows?
+Being in love and loving--perhaps they are different things, duckie."
+
+With which oracular remark she adjourned to her dressing-room, where,
+in long rows, her lovely gowns were hung.
+
+Leila, left alone, picked up a magazine on the table beside her glanced
+through it and laid it down; picked a bonbon daintily out of a big box
+and ate it; picked up a photograph----
+
+"Mousie," said Lilah, coming back, several minutes later, "what makes
+you so still?  Did you find a book?"
+
+No, Leila had not found a book, and the photograph was back where she
+had first discovered it, face downward under the box of chocolates.
+And she was now standing by the window, her veil drawn tightly over her
+close little hat, so that one might not read the trouble in her
+telltale eyes.  The daisy drooped now, as if withered by the blazing
+sun.
+
+But Delilah saw nothing of the change.  She wore a saffron-hued coat,
+which matched the roses in the other room, and her leopard skins, with
+a small hat of the same fur.
+
+As she surveyed herself finally in the long glass, she flung out the
+somewhat caustic remark:
+
+"When I get down-stairs and look at Mary Ballard, I shall feel like a
+Beardsley poster propped up beside a Helleu etching."
+
+After lunch, Porter took Aunt Isabelle and Barry and the three girls to
+Fort Myer.  The General and Mr. Jeliffe met them at the drill hall, and
+as they entered there came to them the fresh fragrance of the tan bark.
+
+As the others filed into their seats, Barry held Leila back.  "We will
+sit at the end," he said.  "I want to talk to you."
+
+Through her veil, her eyes reproached him.
+
+"No," she said; "no."
+
+He looked down at her in surprise.  Never before had Little-Lovely
+Leila refused the offer of his valuable society.
+
+"You sit beside--Delilah," she said, nervously, "She's really your
+guest."
+
+"She is Porter's guest," he declared.  "I don't see why you want to
+turn her over to me."  Then as she endeavored to pass him, he caught
+her arm.
+
+"What's the matter?" he demanded.
+
+"Nothing," faintly,
+
+"Nothing----" scornfully.  "I can read you like a book.  What's
+happened?"
+
+But she merely shook her head and sat down, and then the bugle sounded,
+and the band began to play, and in came the cavalry--a gallant company,
+through the sun-lighted door, charging in a thundering line toward the
+reviewing stand--to stop short in a perfect and sudden salute.
+
+The drill followed, with men riding bareback, men riding four abreast,
+men riding in pyramids, men turning somersaults on their trained and
+intelligent steeds.
+
+One man slipped, fell from his horse, and lay close in the tan bark,
+while the other horses went over him, without a hoof touching, so that
+he rose unhurt, and took his place again in the line.
+
+Leila hid her eyes in her muff.  "I don't like it," she said.  "I've
+never liked it.  And what if that man had been killed?"
+
+"They don't get killed," said Barry easily.  "The hospital is full of
+those who get hurt, but it is good for them; it teaches them to be cool
+and competent when real danger comes."
+
+And now came the artillery, streaming through that sun-lighted
+entrance, the heavy wagons a featherweight to the strong, galloping
+horses.  Breathless Leila watched their manoeuvres, as they wheeled and
+circled and crisscrossed in spaces which seemed impossibly
+small--horses plunging, gun-wagons rattling, dust flying--faster,
+faster----  Again she shut her eyes.
+
+But Mary Ballard, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing, turned to Porter.
+"Don't you love it?" she asked.
+
+"I love you----" audaciously.  "Mary, you and I were born in the wrong
+age.  We belong to the days of King Arthur.  Then I could have worn a
+coat of mail and have stormed your castle, and I shouldn't have cared
+if you hurled defiance from the top turret.  I'd have known that, at
+last, you'd be forced to let down the drawbridge; and I would have
+crossed the moat and taken you prisoner, and you'd have been so
+impressed with my strength and prowess that you would----"
+
+"No, I wouldn't," said Mary quickly.
+
+"Wait till I finish," said Porter, coolly.  "I'd have shut you up in a
+tower, and every night I'd have come and sung beneath your window, and
+at last you'd have dropped a red rose down to me."
+
+They were laughing together now, and Delilah on the other side of
+Porter demanded, "What's the joke?"
+
+"There isn't any," said Porter; "it is all deadly earnest--for me, if
+not for Mary."
+
+And now a horse was down; there was a quick bugle-note, silence.  Like
+clockwork, everything had stopped.
+
+People were asking, "Is anybody hurt?"
+
+Barry looked down at Leila.  Then he leaned toward her father.  "I'm
+going to take this child outside," he said; "she's as white as a sheet.
+She doesn't like it.  We will meet you all later."
+
+Leila's color came back in the sunshine and air and she insisted that
+Barry should return to the hall.
+
+"I don't want you to miss it," she said, "just because I am so silly.
+I can stay in Porter's car and wait."
+
+"I don't want to see it--it's an old story to me."
+
+So they walked on toward Arlington, entering at last the gate which
+leads into that wonderful city of the nation's Northern dead, which was
+once the home of Southern hospitality.  In a sheltered corner they sat
+down and Barry smiled at Little-Lovely Leila.
+
+"Are you all right now, kiddie?"
+
+"Yes," but she did not smile.
+
+He bent down and peered through her veil.  "Take it off and let me look
+at your eyes."
+
+With trembling hands, she took out a pin or two and let it fall.
+
+"You've been crying."
+
+"Oh, Barry," the words were a cry--the cry of a little wounded bird.
+
+He stopped smiling.  "Blessed one, what is it?"
+
+"I can't tell you."
+
+"You must."
+
+"No."
+
+A low-growing magnolia hid them from the rest of the world; he put
+masterful hands on her shoulders and turned her face toward him--her
+little unhappy face.
+
+"Now tell me."
+
+She shook herself free.  "Don't, Barry."
+
+He flushed suddenly and sensitively.  "I know I'm not much of a fellow."
+
+She answered with a dignity which seemed to surmount her usual
+childishness, "Barry, if a man wants a woman to believe in him, he's
+got to make himself worthy of it."
+
+"Well," defiantly, "what have I done?"
+
+[Illustration: "What have I done?"]
+
+"Don't you know?"
+
+"No-o."
+
+"Then I'll tell you.  Yes, I _will_ tell you," with sudden courage.  "I
+was at Delilah's this morning, and I saw your picture, and what you had
+written on it----"
+
+He stared at her, with a sense of surging relief.  If it was only that
+he had to explain about--Lilah.  A smile danced in his eyes.
+
+"Well?"
+
+"I know you like to--play the game--but I didn't think you'd go as far
+as that----"
+
+"How far?"
+
+"Oh, you know."
+
+"I don't."
+
+"_Barry!_"
+
+"I don't.  I wish you'd tell me what you mean, Leila."
+
+"I will."  Her eyes were not reproachful now, they were blazing.  She
+had risen, and with her hands tucked into her muff, and her veil
+blowing about her flushed cheeks, she made her accusation.  "You wrote
+on that picture, 'To the One Girl--Forever.'  Is that the way you think
+of Delilah, Barry?"
+
+"No.  It is the way I think of you.  And how did that picture happen to
+be in Delilah's possession?  I sent it to you."
+
+"To me?"
+
+"Yes, I took it over to you yesterday, and left it with one of the
+maids--a new one.  I intended, to go in and give it to you, but when
+she said you had callers, I handed her the package----"
+
+"And I thought--oh, Barry, what else could I think?"
+
+She was so little and lovely in her tender contrition, that he flung
+discretion to the winds.  "You are to think only one thing," he said,
+passionately, "that I love you--not anybody else, not ever anybody
+else.  I haven't dared put it into words before.  I haven't dared ask
+you to marry me, because I haven't anything to offer you yet.  But I
+thought you--knew----"
+
+Her little hand went out to him.  "Oh, Barry," she whispered, "do you
+really feel that way about me?"
+
+"Yes.  More than I have said.  More than I can ever say."
+
+He drew her down beside him on the bench.  "Our world won't want us to
+get married, Leila; they will say that I am such a boy.  But you will
+believe in me, dear one?"
+
+"Always, Barry."
+
+"And you love me?"
+
+"Oh, you know it."
+
+"Yes, I know it," he said, in a moved voice, as he raised her hands and
+kissed them, "I know it--thank God."
+
+After the drill, Porter took the whole party back to Delilah's for tea.
+And when her guests had gone, and the black-haired beauty went to her
+flamingo room to dress for dinner, she found a note on her pincushion.
+
+
+"I have taken Barry's picture, because he meant it for me; it was a
+mistake, your getting it.  He left it with the new maid one day when
+you were at our house, and she handed it to you instead of to me--she
+mixed up our names, just as the maids used to mix them up at school.
+And I know you won't mind my taking it, because with you it is just a
+game to play at love--with Barry.  But it is my life, as you said that
+day in the Park.  And to-day Barry told me that it is his life, too.
+And I am very happy.  But this is our secret, and please let it be your
+secret until we let the rest of the world know----"
+
+
+Delilah, reading the childish scrawl, smiled and shook her head.  Then
+she went to the telephone and called up Leila.
+
+"Duckie," she said, "I'll dance at your wedding.  Only don't love him
+too much--no man is worth it."
+
+Then, triumphant from the other end of the line, came the voice of
+Perfect Faith--"Oh, Barry's worth it.  I've known him all my life,
+Lilah, and I've never had a single doubt."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+_In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress,
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way._
+
+
+In the weeks which followed the trip to Fort Myer, Mary found an
+astonishing change in her brother.  For the first time in his life he
+seemed to be taking things seriously.  He stayed at home at night and
+studied.  He gave up Jerry Tuckerman and the other radiant musketeers.
+She did not know the reason for the change but it brought her hope and
+happiness.
+
+Barry saw Leila often, but, as yet, no one but Delilah Jeliffe knew of
+the tie between them.
+
+"I ought to tell Dad," Leila had said, timidly; "he'd be very happy.
+It is what he has always wanted, Barry."
+
+"I must prove myself a man first," Barry told her, "I've squandered
+some of my opportunities, but now that I have you to work for, I feel
+as strong as a lion."
+
+They were alone in the General's library.  "It is because you trust me,
+dear one," Barry went on, "that I am strong."
+
+She slipped her little hand into his.  "Barry--it seems so queer to
+think that I shall ever be--your wife."
+
+"You had to be.  It was meant from the--beginning."
+
+"Was it, Barry?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And it will be to the end.  Oh, I shall always love you, dearly,
+dearly----"
+
+It was idyllic, their little love affair--their big love affair, if one
+judged by their measure.  It was tender, sweet, and because it was
+their secret, because there was no word of doubt or of distrust from
+those who were older and wiser, they brought to it all the beauty of
+youth and high hope.
+
+Thus the spring came, and the early summer, and Barry passed his
+examinations triumphantly, and came home one night and told Mary that
+he was going to marry Leila Dick.  As he told her his blue eyes
+beseeched her, and loving him, and hating to hurt him, Mary withheld
+the expression of her fears, and kissed him and cried a little on his
+shoulder, and Barry patted her cheek, and said awkwardly: "I know you
+think I'm not worthy of her, Mary.  But she will make a man of me."
+
+Alone, afterward, Mary wondered if she had been wise to acquiesce--yet
+surely, surely, love was strong enough to lift a man up to a woman's
+ideal--and Leila was such a--darling.
+
+She put the question to Roger Poole that night.  In these warmer days
+she and Roger had slipped almost unconsciously into close intimacy.  He
+read to her for an hour after dinner, when she had no other
+engagements, and often they sat in the old garden, she with her
+note-book on the arm of the stone bench--he at the other end of the
+bench, under a bush of roses of a hundred leaves.  Sometimes Aunt
+Isabelle was with them, with her fancy work, sometimes they were alone;
+but always when the hour was over, he would close his book and ascend
+to his tower, lest he might meet those who came later.  There were many
+nights that he thus escaped Porter Bigelow--nights when in the
+moonlight he heard the murmur of voices, mingled with the splash of the
+fountain; and there were other nights when gay groups danced upon the
+lawn to the music played by Mary just within the open window.
+
+Yet he thanked the gods for the part which he was allowed to play in
+her life.  He lived for that one hour out of the twenty-four.  He dared
+not think what a day would be if he were deprived of that precious
+sixty minutes.
+
+Now and then, when she had been very sure that no one would come, he
+had stayed with her in the moonlight, and the little bronze boy had
+smiled at him from the fountain, and there had been the fragrance of
+the roses, and Mary Ballard in white on the stone bench beside him,
+giving him her friendly, girlish confidences; she discussed problems of
+genteel poverty, the delightful obstinacies of Susan Jenks, the
+dominance of Aunt Frances.  She gave him, too, her opinions--those
+startling untried opinions which warred constantly with his prejudices.
+
+And now to-night--his advice.
+
+"Do you think love can change a man's nature?  Make a weak man strong,
+I mean?"
+
+He laid down his book.  "You ask that as if I could really answer it."
+
+"I think you can.  You always seem to be able to put yourself in the
+other person's place, and it--helps."
+
+"Thank you.  And now in whose place shall put myself?"
+
+"The girl's," promptly.
+
+He considered it.  "I should say that the man should be put to the test
+before marriage."
+
+"You mean that she ought to wait until she is sure that he is made
+over?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Oh, I feel that way.  But what if the girl believes in him?  Doesn't
+dream that he is weak--trusts him absolutely, blindly?  Should any one
+try to open her eyes?"
+
+"Sometimes it is folly to be wise.  Perhaps for her he will always be
+strong."
+
+"Then what's the answer?"
+
+"Only this.  That the man himself should make the test.  He should wait
+until he knows that he is worthy of her."
+
+She made a little gesture of hopelessness, just the lifting of her
+hands and letting them drop; then she spoke with a rush of feeling.
+
+"Mr. Poole--it is Barry and Leila.  Ought I to let them marry?"
+
+He smiled at her confidence in her ability to rule the destinies of
+those about her.
+
+"I fancy that you won't have anything to do with it.  He is of age, and
+you are only his sister.  You couldn't forbid the banns, you know."
+
+"But if I could convince him----"
+
+"Of what?" gravely.  "That you think him a boy?  Perhaps that would
+tend to weaken his powers."
+
+"Then I must fold my hands?"
+
+"Yes.  As things are now--I should wait."
+
+He did not explain, and she did not ask, for what she should wait.  It
+was as if they both realized that the test would come, and that it
+would come in time.
+
+And it did come.
+
+It was while Leila was on a trip to the Maine coast with her father.
+
+July was waning, and already an August sultriness was in the air.
+Those who were left in town were the workers--every one who could get
+away was gone.  Mary, with the care of her house on her hands, refused
+Aunt Frances' invitation for a month by the sea, and Aunt Isabelle
+declined to leave her.
+
+"I like it better here, even with the heat," she told her niece, "than
+running around Bar Harbor with Frances and Grace."
+
+Barry wrote voluminous letters to Leila, and received in return her
+dear childish scrawls.  But the strain of her absence began to tell on
+him.  He began to feel the pull toward old pleasures and distractions.
+Then one day Jerry Tuckerman arrived on the scene.  The next night, he
+and Barry and the other radiant musketeers motored over to Baltimore by
+moonlight.  Barry did not come home the next day, nor the next, nor the
+next.  Mary grew white and tense, and manufactured excuses which did
+not deceive Aunt Isabelle.  Neither of the tired pale women spoke to
+each other of their vigils.  Neither of them spoke of the anxiety which
+consumed them.
+
+Then one night, after a message had come from the office, asking for an
+explanation of Barry's absence; after she had called up the Country
+Club; after she had called up Jerry Tuckerman and had received an
+evasive answer; after she had exhausted all other resources, Mary
+climbed the steps to the Tower Rooms.
+
+And there, sitting stiff and straight in a high-backed chair, with her
+throat dry, her pulses throbbing, she laid the case before Roger Poole.
+
+"There is no one else--I can speak to--about it.  But Barry's been away
+for nearly a week from the office and from home--and nobody knows where
+he is.  And it isn't the first time.  It began before father died, and
+it nearly broke his heart.  You see, he had a brother--whose life was
+ruined because of this.  And Constance and I have done everything.
+There will be months when he is all right.  And then there'll be a
+week--away.  And after it, he is dreadfully depressed, and I'm afraid."
+She was shivering, though the night was hot.
+
+Roger dared not speak his sympathy.  This was not the moment.
+
+So he said, simply, "I'll find him, and when I find him," he went on,
+"it may be best not to bring him back at once.  I've had to deal with
+such cases before.  We will go into the country for a few days, and
+come back when he is completely--himself."
+
+"Oh, can you spare the time?"
+
+"I haven't taken any vacation, and--so there are still thirty days to
+my credit.  And I need an outing."
+
+He prepared at once to go, and when he had packed a little bag, he came
+down into the garden.  There was moonlight and the fragrance and the
+splashing fountain.  Roger was thrilled by the thought of his quest.
+It was as if he had laid upon himself some vow which was sending him
+forth for the sake of this sweet lady.  As Mary came toward him, he
+wished that he might ask for the rose she wore, as his reward.  But he
+must not ask.  She gave him her friendship, her confidence, and these
+were very precious things.  He must never ask for more--and so he must
+not ask for a rose.
+
+And now he was standing just below her on the terrace steps, looking up
+at her with his heart in his eyes.
+
+"I'll find him," he said, "don't worry."
+
+She reached out and touched his shoulder with her hand.  "How good you
+are," she said, wistfully, "to take all of this trouble for us.  I feel
+that I ought not to let you do it--and yet--we are so helpless, Aunt
+Isabelle and I."
+
+There was nothing of the boy about her now.  She was all clinging
+dependent woman.  And the touch of her hand on his shoulder was the
+sword of the queen conferring knighthood.  What cared he now for a rose?
+
+So he left her, standing there in the moonlight, and when he reached
+the bottom of the hill, he turned and looked back, and she still stood
+above him, and as she saw him turn, she waved her hand.
+
+In days of old, knights fought with dragons and cut off their heads,
+only to find that other heads had grown to replace those which had been
+destroyed.
+
+And it was such dragons of doubt and despair which Roger Poole fought
+in the days after he had found Barry.
+
+The boy had hidden himself in a small hotel in the down-town district
+of Baltimore.  Following one clue and then another, Roger had come upon
+him.  There had been no explanations.  Barry had seemed to take his
+rescue as a matter of course, and to be glad of some one into whose
+ears he could pour the litany of his despair.
+
+"It's no use, Poole.  I've fought and fought.  Father helped me.  And I
+promised Con.  And I thought that my love for Leila would make me
+strong.  But there's no use trying.  I'll be beaten.  It is in the
+blood.  I had an uncle who drank himself to death.  And back of him
+there was a grandfather."
+
+They had been together for two days.  Barry had agreed to Roger's plans
+for a trip to the country, and now they were under the trees on the
+banks of one of the little brackish rivers which flow into the
+Chesapeake.  They had fished a little in the early morning, then had
+brought their boat in, for Barry had grown tired of the sport.  He
+wanted to talk about himself.
+
+"It's no use," he said again; "it's in the blood."
+
+Roger was propped against a tree, his hat off, his dark hair blown back
+from his fine thin face.
+
+"Our lives," he said, "are our own.  Not what our ancestors make them."
+
+"I don't believe it," Barry said, flatly.  "I've fought a good fight,
+no one can say that I haven't.  And I've lost.  After this do you
+suppose that Mary will let me marry Leila?  Do you suppose the General
+will let me marry her?"
+
+"Will you let yourself marry her?"
+
+Barry's face flamed.  "Then you think I'm not worthy?"
+
+"It is what you think, Ballard, not what I think."
+
+Barry pulled up a handful of grass and threw it away, pulled up another
+handful and threw it away.  Then he said, doggedly, "I'm going to marry
+her, Poole; no one shall take her away from me."
+
+"And you call that love?"
+
+"Yes.  I can't live without her."
+
+Roger with his eyes on the dark water which slipped by the banks,
+taking its shadows from the darkness of the thick branches which bent
+above it said quietly, "Love to me has always seemed something bigger
+than that--it has seemed as if love--great love took into consideration
+first the welfare of the beloved."
+
+There was a long silence, out of which Barry said tempestuously, "It
+will break her heart if anything comes between us.  I'm not saying that
+because am a conceited donkey.  But she is such a constant little
+thing."
+
+Roger nodded.  "That's all the more reason why you've got to pull up
+now, Ballard."
+
+"But I've tried."
+
+"I knew a man who tried--and won."
+
+"How?" eagerly.
+
+"I met him in the pine woods of the South.  I was down there to recover
+from a cataclysm which had changed--my life.  This man had a little
+shack next to mine.  Neither of us had much money.  We lived literally
+in the open.  We cooked over fires in front of our doors.  We hunted
+and fished.  Now and then we went to town for our supplies, but most of
+our things we got from the schooner-men who drove down from the hills.
+My neighbor was married.  He had a wife and three children.  But he had
+come alone.  And he told me grimly that he should never go back until
+he went back a man."
+
+"Did he go back?"
+
+"Yes.  He conquered.  He looked upon his weakness not merely as a moral
+disease, but as a physical one.  And it was to be cured like any other
+disease by removing the cause.  The first step was to get away from old
+associations.  He couldn't resist temptation, so he had come where he
+was not tempted.  His occupation in the city had been mental, here it
+was largely physical.  He chopped wood, he tramped the forest, he
+whipped the streams.  And gradually he built up a self which was
+capable of resistance.  When he went back he was a different man, made
+over by his different life.  And he has cast out his--devil."
+
+The boy was visibly impressed.
+
+"His way might not be your way," Roger concluded, "but the fact that he
+fought a winning battle should give you hope."
+
+The next day they went back.  Mary met them as if nothing had happened.
+The basket of fish which they had brought to be cooked by Susan Jenks
+furnished an unembarrassing topic of conversation.  Then Barry went to
+his room, and Mary was alone with Roger.
+
+She had had a letter from him, and a message by telephone; thus her
+anxiety had been stilled.  And she was very grateful--so grateful that
+her voice trembled as she held out her hands to him.
+
+"How shall I ever thank you?" she said.
+
+He took her hands in his, and stood looking down at her.
+
+He did not speak at once, yet in those fleeting moments Mary had a
+strange sense of a question asked and answered.  It was as if he were
+calling upon her for something she was not ready to give--as if he were
+drawing from her some subconscious admission, swaying her by a force
+that was compelling, to reveal herself to him.
+
+And, as she thought these things, he saw a new look in her eyes, and
+her breath quickened.
+
+He dropped her hands.
+
+"Don't thank me," he said.  "Ask me again to do something for you.
+That shall be my reward."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+_In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower._
+
+
+In September everybody came back to town, Porter Bigelow among the rest.
+
+He telephoned at once to Mary, "I'm coming up."
+
+She was radiant.  "Constance and Gordon arrived Monday, and I want you
+for dinner.  Leila will be here and the General and Aunt Frances and
+Grace from New York."
+
+His growl came back to her.  "And that means that I won't have a minute
+alone with you."
+
+"Oh, Porter--please.  There are so many other girls in the world--and
+you've had the whole summer to find one."
+
+"The summer has been a howling wilderness.  But mother has put me
+through my paces at the resorts.  Mary, I've learned such a lot of new
+dances to teach you."
+
+"Teach them to Grace."
+
+He groaned.  "You know what I think of Grace Clendenning."
+
+"Porter, she's beautiful.  She wears little black frocks with wide
+white collars and cuffs and looks perfectly adorable.  To-night she's
+going to wear a black tulle gown and a queer flaring black tulle
+head-dress, and with her red hair--you won't be able to drag your eyes
+from her."
+
+"I've enough red hair of my own," Porter informed her, "without having
+to look at Grace's."
+
+"I'll put you opposite her at dinner.  Come and see, and be conquered."
+
+Roger Poole was also invited to the home-coming dinner.  Mary had asked
+nobody's advice this time.  Of late Roger and Barry had been much
+together, and it was their friendship which Mary had exploited, when
+Constance, somewhat anxiously, had asked, on the day preceding the
+dinner, if she thought it was wise to include the lonely dweller in the
+Tower Rooms.
+
+"He's really very nice, Constance.  And he has been a great help to
+Barry."
+
+It was the first time that they had spoken of their brother.  And now
+Constance's words came with something of an effort.  "What of Barry,
+Mary?"
+
+"He is more of a man, Con.  He is trying hard for Leila's sake."
+
+"Gordon thinks they really ought not to be engaged."
+
+The sisters were in Mary's room, and Mary at her little desk was
+writing out the dinner list for Susan Jenks.  She looked up and laid
+down her pen.  "Then you've told Gordon?"
+
+"Yes.  And he says that Barry ought to go away."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"Far enough to give Leila a chance to get over it."
+
+"Do you think she would ever get over it, Con?"
+
+"Gordon thinks she would."
+
+Mary's head went up.  "I am not asking what Gordon thinks.  What do you
+think?"
+
+"I think as Gordon does."  Then as Mary made a little impatient
+gesture, she added, "Gordon is very wise.  At first it seemed to me
+that he was--harsh, in his judgment of Barry.  But he knows so much of
+men--and he says that here, in town, among his old associations--Barry
+will never be different.  And it isn't fair to Leila."
+
+Mary knew that it was not fair to Leila.  She had always known it.  Yet
+she was stubbornly resentful of the fact that Gordon Richardson should
+be, as it were, the arbiter of Barry's destiny.
+
+"Oh, it is all such a muddle, Con," she said, and put the question
+aside.  "We won't talk about it just now.  There is so much else to
+say--and it is lovely to have you back, dearest--and you are so lovely."
+
+Constance was curled up on Mary's couch, resting after her journey.  "I
+am so happy, Mary.  No woman knows anything about it, until she has had
+it for herself.  A man's strength is so wonderful--and Gordon's care of
+me--oh, Mary, if there were only another man in the world for you like
+Gordon I should be perfectly content."
+
+It was a fervent gentle echo of Aunt Frances' demand upon her, and Mary
+suppressing her raging jealousy of the man who had stolen her sister,
+asked somewhat wistfully, "Can you talk about me, for a minute, and
+forget that you have a husband?"
+
+"I don't need to forget Gordon," was the serene response.  "I can keep
+him in the back of my mind."
+
+Mary picked up her pen, and underscored "_Soup_"; then: "Constance,
+darling," she said, "would you feel dreadfully if I went to work?"
+
+"What kind of work, Mary?"
+
+"In one of the departments,--as stenographer."
+
+"But you don't know anything about it."
+
+"Yes, I do, I've been studying ever since you went away."
+
+"But why, Mary?"
+
+"Because--oh, can't you see, Constance?  I can't be sure of--Barry--for
+future support.  And I won't go with Aunt Frances.  And this house is
+simply eating up the little that father left us.  When you married, I
+thought the rental of the Tower Rooms would keep things going, but it
+won't.  And I won't sell the house.  I love every old stick and stone
+of it.  And anyhow, must I sit and fold my hands all the rest of my
+life just because I am a woman?"
+
+"But Mary, dear, you will marry--there's Porter."
+
+"Constance, I couldn't think of marriage that way--as a chance to be
+taken care of.  Oh, Con, I want to wait--for love."
+
+"Dearest, of course.  But you can live with us.  Gordon would never
+consent to your working--he thinks it is dreadful for a woman to have
+to fight the world."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "No, it wouldn't be fair to you.  It is never
+fair for an outsider to intrude upon the happiness of a home.  If your
+duet is ever to be a trio, it must not be with my big blundering voice,
+which could make only a discord, but a little piping one."
+
+She looked up to meet Constance's shy, self-conscious eyes.
+
+Mary flew to her, and knelt beside the couch.  "Darling, darling?"
+
+And now the list was forgotten and Susan Jenks coming up for it was
+made a party to that tremulous secret, and the fate of the dinner was
+threatened until Mary, coming back to realities, kissed her sister and
+went to her desk, and held herself sternly to the five following
+courses of the family dinner which was to please the palates of those
+fresh from Paris and London and from castles by the sea; and which was
+to test to the utmost the measure of Susan's culinary skill.
+
+At dinner the next night, Gordon Richardson looked often and intently
+at Roger Poole, and when, under the warmth of the September moon, the
+men drifted out into the garden to smoke, he said, "I've just placed
+you."
+
+Roger nodded.  "I thought you'd remember.  You were one of the younger
+boys at St. Martin's--you haven't changed much, but I couldn't be sure."
+
+Gordon hesitated.  "I thought I heard from someone that you entered the
+Church."
+
+"I had a church in the South--for three years."
+
+Gordon tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
+
+"And you gave it up?"
+
+"Yes.  I gave it up."
+
+That was all.  Not a word of the explanation for which he knew Gordon
+was waiting.  Nothing but the bare statement, "I gave it up."
+
+They talked a little of St. Martin's after that, of their boyish
+experiences.  But Roger was conscious that Gordon was weighing him, and
+asking of himself, "Why did he give it up?"
+
+The two men were sitting on the stone bench where Roger had so often
+sat with Mary.  The garden was showing the first signs of the season's
+blight.  Fading leaf and rustling vine had replaced the unspringing
+greenness and the fragrant growth of the summer.  There were, to be
+sure, dahlias and chrysanthemums and cosmos.  But the glory of the
+garden was gone.
+
+Then into the garden came Mary!
+
+She was wrapped in a thin silken, scarlet cloak that belonged to
+Constance.  As she passed through the broad band of light made by the
+street lamp.  Roger had a sudden memory of the flame-like blossoming of
+a certain slender shrub in the spring.  It had been the first of the
+flowers to bloom, and Mary had picked a branch for the vase on his
+table in the Tower sitting-room.
+
+"Constance wants you, Gordon," Mary said, as she came nearer; "some one
+has called up to arrange about a dinner date, and she can't decide
+without you."
+
+She sat down on the stone bench, and Roger, who had risen at her
+approach, stood under the hundred-leaved bush from which all the roses
+were gone.
+
+"Do you know," he said, without warning or preface, "that it seemed to
+me that, as you came into the garden, it bloomed again."
+
+Never before had he spoken thus.  And he said it again.  "When you
+came, it was as if the garden bloomed."
+
+He sat down beside her.  "Is any one going to claim you right away?
+Because if not, I have something I want to say."
+
+"Nobody will claim me.  At least I hope nobody will.  Grace Clendenning
+is telling Porter about the art of woman's dress.  She takes clothes so
+seriously, you know.  And Porter is interested in spite of himself.
+And Barry and Leila are on the terrace steps, looking at the moon over
+the river, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Isabelle and General Dick are in
+the house because of the night air, so there's really no one in the
+garden but you and me."
+
+"Just you--and--me----" he said, and stopped.
+
+She was plainly puzzled by his manner.  But she waited, her arms
+wrapped in her red cloak.
+
+At last he said, "Your brother-in-law and I went to school together."
+
+"Gordon?"
+
+"Yes.  St. Martin's.  He was younger than I, and we were not much
+together.  But I knew him.  And after he had puzzled over it, he knew
+me."
+
+"How interesting."
+
+"And he asked me something about myself, which I have never told you;
+which I want to tell you now."
+
+He was finding it hard to tell, with her eyes upon him, bright as stars.
+
+"Your brother said he had heard that I had gone into the Church--that I
+had a parish.  And what he had heard was true.  Until five years ago, I
+was rector of a church in the South."
+
+"_You_?"  That was all.  Just a little breathed note of incredulity.
+
+"Yes.  I wanted to tell you before he should have a chance to tell, and
+to think that I had kept from you something which you should have been
+told.  But I am not sure, even now, that it should be told."
+
+"But on Christmas Eve, you said that you did not believe----"
+
+"I do not."
+
+"And was that the reason you gave it up?"
+
+"No.  It is a long story.  And it is not a pleasant one.  Yet it seems
+that I must tell it."
+
+The wind had risen and blew a mist from the fountain.  The dead leaves
+rustled.
+
+Mary shivered.
+
+"Oh, you are cold," Roger said, "and I am keeping you."
+
+"No," she said, mechanically, "I am not cold.  I have my cloak.  Please
+go on."
+
+But he was not to tell his story then, for a shaft of strong light
+illumined the roadway, and a big limousine stopped at the foot of the
+terrace steps.  They heard Delilah Jeliffe's high laugh; then Porter's
+voice in the garden.  "Mary, are you there?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Grace Clendenning and her mother are going, and Delilah and Mr.
+Jeliffe have motored out to show you their new car."
+
+There was deep disapproval in his voice.  Mary rose reluctantly as he
+joined them.  "Oh, Porter, must I listen to Delilah's chatter for the
+rest of the evening?"
+
+"You made me listen to Grace's.  This is your punishment."
+
+"I don't want to be punished.  And I am very tired, Porter."
+
+This was a new word in Mary Ballard's vocabulary, and Porter responded
+at once to its appeal.
+
+"We will get rid of Delilah presently, and then Gordon and Constance
+will go with us for a spin around the Speedway.  That will set you up,
+little lady."
+
+Roger stood silent by the fountain.  Through the veil of mist the
+little bronze boy seemed to smile maliciously.  During all the years in
+which he had ridden the dolphin, he had seen men and women come and go
+beneath the hundred-leaved bush.  And he had smiled on all of them, and
+by their mood they had interpreted his smiles.
+
+Roger's mood at this moment was one of impotent rebellion at Porter's
+air of proprietorship, and it was with this air intensified that, as
+Mary shivered again Porter drew her wrap about her shoulders, fastening
+the loop over the big button with expert fingers and said, carelessly,
+"Are you coming in with us, Poole?"
+
+"No.  Not now."
+
+Above the head of the little bronze boy, level glance met level glance,
+as in the moonlight the men surveyed each other.
+
+Then Mary spoke.
+
+"Mr. Poole, I am so sorry not to hear the rest of the--story."
+
+"You shall hear it another time."
+
+She hesitated, looking up at him.  It was as if she wanted to speak but
+could not, with Porter there to listen.
+
+So she smiled, with eyes and lips.  Just a flash, but it warmed his
+heart.
+
+Yet as she went away with Porter, and passed once more through the
+broad band of the street lamp's light which made of her scarlet cloak a
+flaming flower, he looked after her wistfully, and wondered if when she
+had heard what he had to tell she would ever smile at him like that
+again.
+
+Delilah, fresh from a triumphal summer, was in the midst of a laughing
+group on the porch.
+
+As Mary came up, she was saying: "And we have taken a dear old home in
+Georgetown.  No more glare or glitter.  Everything is to be subdued to
+the dullness of a Japanese print--pale gray and dull blue and a splash
+of black.  This gown gives the keynote."
+
+She was in gray taffeta, with a girdle of soft old blue, and a string
+of black rose-beads.  No color was on her cheeks--there was just the
+blackness of her hair and the whiteness of her fine skin.
+
+"It's great," Barry said,
+
+Delilah nodded.  "Yes.  It has taken me several years to find out some
+things."  She looked at Grace and smiled.  "It didn't take you years,
+did it?"
+
+Grace smiled back.  The two women were as far apart as the poles.
+Grace represented the old Knickerbocker stock, Lilah, a later grafting.
+Grace studied clothes because it pleased her to make fashions a fine
+art.  Delilah studied to impress.  But each one saw in the other some
+similarity of taste and of mood, and the smile that they exchanged was
+that of comprehension.
+
+Aunt Frances did not approve of Delilah.  She said so to Grace going
+home.
+
+"My dear, they live on the West Side--in a big house on the Drive.  My
+calling list stops east of the Park."
+
+Grace shrugged.  "Mother," she said, "I learned one thing in
+Paris--that the only people worth knowing are the interesting people,
+and whether they live on the Drive or in Dakota, I don't care.  And
+we've an awful lot of fossils in our set."
+
+Mrs. Clendenning shifted the argument.  "I don't see why General Dick
+allows Leila to be so much with Miss Jeliffe."
+
+"They were at school together, and the General and Mr. Jeliffe are old
+friends."
+
+Her mother shrugged.  "Well, I hope that if we stay here for the winter
+that they won't be forced upon us.  Washington is such a city of
+climbers, Grace."
+
+Grace let the matter drop there.  She had learned discretion.  She and
+her mother viewed life from different angles.  To attempt to reconcile
+these differences would mean, had always meant, strife and controversy,
+and in these later years, Grace had steered her course toward serenity.
+She had refused to be blown about by the storms of her mother's
+prejudices.  In the midst of the conventionality of her own social
+training, she had managed to be untrammeled.  In this she was more like
+Mary than the others of her generation.  And she loved Mary, and wanted
+to see her happy.
+
+"Mother," she asked abruptly, "who is this Roger Poole?"
+
+Mrs. Clendenning told her that he was a lodger in the Tower Rooms--a
+treasury clerk--a mere nobody.
+
+Grace challenged the last statement.  "He's a brilliant man," she said.
+"I sat next to him at dinner.  There's a mystery somewhere.  He has an
+air of authority, the ease of a man of the world."
+
+"He is in love with Mary," said Mrs. Clendenning, "and he oughtn't to
+be in the house."
+
+"But Mary isn't in love with him--not yet."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+In the darkness Grace smiled.  How did she know?  Why, Mary in love
+would be lighted up by a lamp within!  It would burn in her cheeks,
+flash in her eyes.
+
+"No, Mary's not in love," she said.
+
+"She ought to marry Porter Bigelow."
+
+"She ought not to marry Porter.  Mary should marry a man who would
+utilize all that she has to give.  Porter would not utilize it."
+
+"Now what do you mean by that?" said Mrs. Clendenning, impatiently.
+"Don't talk nonsense, Grace."
+
+"Mary Ballard," Grace analyzed slowly, "is one of the women who if she
+had been born in another generation would have gone singing to the
+lions for the sake of an ideal; she would have led an army, or have
+loaded guns behind barricades.  She has courage and force, and the need
+of some big thing in her life to bring out her best.  And Porter
+doesn't need that kind of wife.  He doesn't want it.  He wants to
+worship.  To kneel at her feet and look up to her.  He would require
+nothing of her.  He would smother her with tenderness.  And she doesn't
+want to be smothered.  She wants to lift up her head and face the
+beating winds."
+
+Mrs. Clendenning, helpless before this burst of eloquence on the part
+of her usually restrained daughter, asked, tartly, "How in the world do
+you know what Porter wants or Mary needs?"
+
+"Perhaps," said Grace, slowly, "it is because I am a little like Mary.
+But I am older, and I've learned to take what the world gives.  Not
+what I want.  But Mary will never be content with compromise, and she
+will always go through life with her head up."
+
+Mary's head was up at that very moment, as with cheeks flaming and eyes
+bright, she played hostess to her guests, while in the back of her
+brain were beating questions about Roger Poole.
+
+Freed from the somewhat hampering presence of Mrs. Clendenning, Delilah
+was letting herself go, and she drew even from grave Gordon Richardson
+the tribute of laughter.
+
+"It was an artist that I met at Marblehead," she said, "who showed me
+the way.  He told me that I was a blot against the sea and the sky,
+with my purples and greens and reds and yellows.  I will show you his
+sketches of me as I ought to be.  They opened my eyes; and I'll show
+you my artist too.  He's coming down to see whether I have caught the
+idea."
+
+And now she moved down the steps.  "Father will be furious if I keep
+him waiting any longer.  He's crazy over the car, and when he drives,
+it is a regular Tam O'Shanter performance.  I won't ask any of you to
+risk your necks with him yet, but if you and the General are willing to
+try it, Leila, we will take you home."
+
+"I haven't fought in fifty battles to show the white feather now," said
+the General, and Leila chirruped, "I'd love it," and presently, with
+Barry in devoted attendance, they drove off.
+
+Mary, waiting on the porch for Porter to telephone for his own car,
+which was to take them around the Speedway, looked eagerly toward the
+fountain.  The moon had gone under a cloud, and while she caught the
+gleam of the water, the hundred-leaved bush hid the bench.  Was Roger
+Poole there?  Alone?
+
+She heard Porter's voice behind her.  "Mary," he said, "I've brought a
+heavy wrap.  And the car will be here in a minute."
+
+Aunt Isabelle had given him the green wrap with the fur.  She slipped
+into it silently, and he turned the collar up about her neck.
+
+"I'm not going to have you shivering as you did in that thin red
+thing," he said.
+
+She drew away.  It was good of him to take care of her, but she didn't
+want his care.  She didn't want that tone, that air of possession.
+She was not Porter's.  She belonged to herself.  And to no one else.
+She was free.
+
+With the quick proud movement that was characteristic of her, she
+lifted her head.  Her eyes went beyond Porter, beyond the porch, to the
+Tower Rooms where a light flared, suddenly.  Roger Poole was not in the
+garden; he had gone up without saying "Good-night."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+_In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book._
+
+
+_In the Tower Rooms, Midnight----_
+
+It is best to write it.  What I might have said to you in the garden
+would have been halting at best.  How could I speak it all with your
+clear eyes upon me--all the sordid history of those years which are
+best buried, but whose ghosts to-night have risen again?
+
+If in these months--this year that I have lived in these rooms, I have
+seemed to hide that which you will now know, it was not because I
+wanted to set myself before you as something more than I am.  Not that
+I wished to deceive.  It was simply that the thought of the old life
+brought a surging sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, of rebellion
+against fate, Having put it behind me, I have not wished to talk about
+it--to think about it--to have it, in all its tarnished tragedy, held
+up before your earnest, shining eyes.
+
+For you have never known such things as I have to tell you, Mary
+Ballard.  There has been sorrow in your life, and, I have seen of late,
+suffering for those you love.  But, as yet, you have not doffed an
+ideal.  You have not bowed that brave young head of yours.  You have
+never yet turned your back upon the things which might have been.
+
+As I have turned mine.  I wish sometimes that you might have known me
+before the happening of these things which I am to tell you.  But I
+wish more than all, that I might have known you.  Until I came here, I
+did not dream that there was such a woman in the world as you.  I had
+thought of women first, as a chivalrous boy thinks, later, as a
+disillusioned man.  But of a woman like a young and ardent soldier, on
+fire to fight the winning battles of the world--of such a woman I had
+never dreamed.
+
+But this year has taught me.  I have seen you pushing away from you the
+things which would have charmed most women  I have seen you pushing
+away wealth, and love for the mere sake of loving.  I have seen you
+willing to work that you might hold undimmed the ideal which you had
+set for your womanhood.  Loving and love-worthy, you have not been
+willing to receive unless you could give, give from the fulness of that
+generous nature of yours.  And out of that generosity, you have given
+me your friendship.
+
+And now; as I write the things which your clear eyes are to read, I am
+wondering whether that friendship will be withdrawn.  Will you when you
+have heard of my losing battle, find anything in me that is
+worthy--will there be anything saved out of the wreck of your thought
+of me?
+
+Well, here it is, and you shall judge:
+
+I will skip the first years, except to say that my father was one of
+the New York Pooles who moved South after the Civil War.  My mother was
+from Richmond.  We were prosperous folk, with an unassailable social
+position.  My mother, gracious and charming, is little more than a
+memory; she died when I was a child.  My father married again, and died
+when I was in college.  There were three children by this second
+marriage, and when the estate was settled, only a modest sum fell to my
+share.
+
+I had been a lonely little boy--at college I was a dreamy, idealistic
+chap, with the saving grace of a love of athletics.  Your
+brother-in-law will tell you something of my successes on our school
+team.  That was my life--the day in the open, the nights among my books.
+
+As time went on, I took prizes in oratory--there was a certain
+commencement, when the school went wild about me, and I was carried on
+the shoulders of my comrades.
+
+There seemed open to me the Church and the law.  Had I lived in a
+different environment, there would have been also the stage.  But I saw
+only two outlets for my talents, the Church, toward which my tastes
+inclined, and the law, which had been my father's profession.
+
+At last I chose the Church.  I liked the thought of my scholarly
+future--of the power which my voice might have to sway audiences and to
+move them.
+
+I am putting it all down, all of my boyish optimism, conceit--whatever
+you may choose to call it.
+
+Yet I am convinced of this, and my success of a few years proved it,
+that had nothing interfered with my future, I should have made an
+impression on ever-widening circles.
+
+But something came to interfere.
+
+In my last years at the Seminary, I boarded at a house where I met
+daily the daughter of the landlady.  She was a little thing, with
+yellow hair and a childish manner.  As I look back, I can't say that I
+was ever greatly attracted to her.  But she was a part of my life for
+so long that gradually there grew up between us a sort of good
+fellowship.  Not friendship in the sense that I have understood it with
+you; there was about it nothing of spiritual or of mental congeniality.
+But I played the big brother.  I took her to little dances; and to
+other college affairs.  I gave both to herself and to her widowed
+mother such little pleasures as it is possible for a man to give to two
+rather lonely women.  There were other students in the house, and I was
+not conscious that I was doing anything more than the rest of them.
+
+Then there came a day when the yellow-haired child---shall I call her
+Kathy?--wanted to go to a pageant in a neighboring town.  It was to
+last two days, and there was to be a night parade, and floats and a
+carnival.  Many of the students were going, and it was planned that
+Kathy and I should take a morning train on the first day, so that we
+might miss nothing.  Kathy's mother would come on an afternoon train,
+and they would spend the night at a certain quiet hotel, while I was to
+go with a lot of fellows to another.
+
+Well, when that afternoon train arrived, the mother was not on it.  Nor
+did she come.  Without one thought of unconventionality, I procured a
+room for Kathy at the place where she and her mother would have
+stopped.  Then I left her and went to the other hotel to join my
+classmates.  But carnival-mad; they did not come in at all, and went
+back on an express which passed through the town in the early morning.
+
+When Kathy and I reached home at noon, we found her mother white and
+hysterical.  She would listen to no explanations.  She told me that I
+should have brought Kathy back the night before--that she had missed
+her train and thus her appointment with us.  And she told me that I was
+in honor bound to marry Kathy.
+
+As I write it, it seems such melodrama.  But it was very serious then.
+I have never dared analyze the mother's motives.  But to my boyish eyes
+her anxiety for her daughter's reputation was sincere, and I accepted
+the responsibility she laid upon me.
+
+Well, I married her.  And she put her slender arms about my neck and
+cried and thanked me.
+
+She was very sweet and she was my--wife--and when I was given a parish
+and had introduced her to my people, they loved her for the white
+gentleness which seemed purity, and for acquiescent amiability which
+seemed--goodness.
+
+I have myself much to blame in this--that I did not love her.  All
+these years I have known it.  But that I was utterly unawakened I did
+not know.  Only in the last few months have I learned it.
+
+Perhaps she missed what I should have given her.  God knows.  And He
+only knows whether, if I had adored her, worshiped her, things would
+have been different.
+
+I was very busy.  She was not strong.  She was left much to herself.
+The people did not expect any great efforts on her part--it was enough
+that she should look like a saint--that she should lend herself so
+perfectly to the ecclesiastical atmosphere.
+
+And now comes the strange, the almost unbelievable part.  One morning
+when we had been married two years, I left the house to go to the
+office of one of my most intimate friends in the parish--a doctor who
+lived near us, who was unmarried, and who had prescribed now and then
+for my wife.  As I went out, Kathy asked me to return to him a magazine
+which she handed me.  It was wrapped and tied with a string.  I had to
+wait in the doctor's office, and I unwrapped the magazine and untied
+the string, and between the leaves I found a note to--my friend.
+
+Why do people do things like that?  She might have telephoned what she
+had to say; she might have written it, and have sent it through the
+mails.  But she chose this way, and let me carry to another man the
+message of her love for him.
+
+For that was what the note told.  There was no doubt, and I walked out
+of the office and went home.  In other times with other manners, I
+might have killed him.  If I had loved her, I might; I cannot tell.
+But I went home.
+
+She seemed glad that I knew.  And she begged that I would divorce her
+and let her marry him.
+
+Dear Clear Eyes, who read this, what do you think of me?  Of this story?
+
+And what did I think?  I who had dreamed, and studied and preached, and
+had never--lived?  I who had hated the sordid?  I who had thought
+myself so high?
+
+As I married her, so I gave her a divorce.  And as I would not have her
+name and mine smirched, I separated myself from her, and she won her
+plea on the ground of desertion.
+
+Do you know what that meant in my life?  It meant that I must give up
+my church.  It meant that I must be willing to bear the things which
+might be said of me.  Even if the truth had been known, there would
+have been little difference, except in the sympathy which would have
+been vouchsafed me as the injured party.  And I wanted no man's pity.
+
+And so I went forth, deprived of the right to lift up my voice and
+preach--deprived of the right to speak to the thousands who had packed
+my church.  And now--what meaning for me had the candles on the altar,
+what meaning the voices in the choir?  I had sung too, in the light of
+the holy candles, but it was ordained that my voice must be forever
+still.
+
+I fought my battle out one night in the darkness of my church.  I
+prayed for light and I saw none.  Oh, Clear Eyes, why is light given to
+a man whose way is hid?  I went forth from that church convinced that
+it was all a sham.  That the lights meant nothing; that the music meant
+less, and that what I had preached had been a poetic fallacy.
+
+Some of the people of my church still believe in me.  Others, if you
+should meet them, would say that she was a saint, and that I was the
+sinner.  Well, if my sin was weakness, I confess it.  I should,
+perhaps, never have married her; but having married her, could I have
+held her mine against her will?
+
+She married him.  And a year after, she died.  She was a frail little
+thing, and I have nothing harsh to say of her.  In a sense she was a
+victim, first of her mother's ambition, next of my lack of love, and
+last of all, of his pursuit.
+
+Perhaps I should not have told you this.  Except my Bishop, who asked
+for the truth, and to whom I gave it, and whose gentleness and kindness
+are never-to-be-forgotten things--except for him, you are the only one
+I have ever told; the only one I shall ever tell.
+
+But I shall tell you this, and glory in the telling.  That if I had a
+life to offer of honor and of achievement, I should offer it now to
+you.  That if I had met you as a dreaming boy, I would have tried to
+match my dreams to yours.
+
+You may say that with the death of my wife things have changed.  That I
+might yet find a place to preach, to teach--to speak to audiences and
+to sway them.
+
+But any reëntrance into the world means the bringing up of the old
+story--the question--the whispered comment.  I do not think that I am a
+coward.  For the sake of a cause, I could face death with courage.  But
+I cannot face questioning eyes and whispering lips.
+
+So I am dedicated for all my future to mediocrity.  And what has
+mediocrity to do with you, who have "never turned your back, but
+marched face forward"?
+
+And so I am going away.  Not so quickly that there will be comment.
+But quickly enough to relieve you of future embarrassment in my behalf.
+
+I do not know that you will answer this.  But I know that whatever your
+verdict, whether I am still to have the grace of your friendship or to
+lose it forever, I am glad to have lived this one year in the Tower
+Rooms.  I am glad to have known the one woman who has given me back--my
+boyish dreams of all women.
+
+And now a last line.  If ever in all the years to come you should have
+need of me, I am at your service.  I shall count nothing too hard that
+you may ask.  I am whimsically aware that in the midst of all this
+darkness and tragedy my offer is that of the Mouse to the Lion.  But
+there came a day when the Mouse paid its debt.  Ask me to pay mine, and
+I will come--from the ends of the earth.
+
+
+This was the letter which Mary found the next morning on her desk in
+the little office room into which Roger had been shown on the night of
+the wedding.  She recognized his firm script and found herself
+trembling as she touched the square white envelope.
+
+But she laid the letter aside until she had given Susan her orders,
+until she had given other orders over the telephone, until she had
+interviewed the furnace man and the butcher's boy, and had written and
+mailed certain checks.
+
+Then she took the letter with her to her own room, locked the door and
+read it.
+
+Constance, knocking a little later, was let in, and found her sister
+dressed and ready for the street.
+
+"I've a dozen engagements," Mary said.  She was drawing on her gloves
+and smiling.  She was, perhaps, a little pale, but that the Mary of
+to-day was different from the Mary if yesterday was not visible from
+outward signs.
+
+"I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely
+frock you bought me fitted for Delilah's tea dance; then I'll meet you
+at Mrs. Carey's luncheon.  And after that will be our drive with
+Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later
+the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow's.  I'm afraid it will be pretty strenuous
+for you, Constance."
+
+"I sha'n't try to take in the teas.  I'll come home and lie down before
+I have to dress for dinner."
+
+As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that
+she was doing it well.  She made conscientious plans with her
+dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the
+luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter's exuberant mood with her
+own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.
+
+After the view, Constance went home in Porter's car, and Mary was left
+at a house on Dupont Circle.  Porter's eyes had begged that she would
+let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had
+sent him off.
+
+As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and
+smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who
+insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice.  And then, as
+soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open
+air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a
+break for freedom.
+
+She did not go to the other tea.  All day she had lived in a dream,
+doing that which was required of her and doing it well.  But from now
+until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would
+give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.
+
+She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly
+came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.
+At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat
+back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from
+interruption.
+
+And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter
+stood out.
+
+"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning
+the voices in the choir?  I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,
+but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."
+
+This to Mary was the great tragedy--his loss of courage, his loss of
+faith--his acceptance of a passive future.  Resolutely she had
+conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had
+read of that sordid marriage and its sequence.  Resolutely she had
+risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole
+of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had
+fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.
+
+Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;
+life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.
+
+To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not
+thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for
+him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it.  There
+had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she
+had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love
+come to me--at last?"  But she had not answered it.  She knew that she
+would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which
+was, as yet, hidden from him.
+
+But how could she best help him to find that meaning?  Dimly she felt
+that it was to be through her that he would find it.  And he was going
+away.  And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of
+hope.
+
+It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.
+
+She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands.  She had the simple
+faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had
+asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that
+her prayers would be answered.
+
+It was late when she left the church.  And she was late in getting
+home.  All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no
+light in the Tower Rooms.  Roger, who dined down-town, would not come
+until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.
+
+As she passed through the garden, she saw that on a bush near the
+fountain bloomed a late rose.  She stooped and picked it, and flitting
+in the dusk down the path, she entered the door which led to the Tower
+stairway.
+
+And when, an hour later, Roger Poole came into the quiet house, weary
+and worn from the strain of a day in which he had tried to read his
+letter with Mary's eyes, he found his room dark, except for the flicker
+of the fire.
+
+Feeling his way through the dimness, he pulled at last the little chain
+of the electric lamp on his table.  The light at once drew a circle of
+gold on the dark dull oak.  And within that circle he saw the answer to
+his letter.
+
+Wide open and illumined, lay John Ballard's old Bible.  And across the
+pages, fresh and fragrant as the friendship which she had given him,
+was the late rose which Mary had picked in the garden.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+_In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy._
+
+
+To Mary, possessed and swayed by the letter which she had received from
+Roger, it seemed a strange thing that the rest of the world moved
+calmly and unconsciously forward.
+
+The letter had come to her on Saturday.  On Sunday morning everybody
+went to church.  Everybody dined afterward, unfashionably, at two
+o'clock, and later everybody motored out to the Park.
+
+That is, everybody but Mary!
+
+She declined on the ground of other things to do.
+
+"There'll be five of you anyhow with Aunt Frances and Grace," she said,
+"and I'll have tea for you when you come back."
+
+So Constance and Gordon and Aunt Isabelle had gone off, and with Barry
+at Leila's, Mary was at last alone.
+
+Alone in the house with Roger Poole!
+
+Her little plans were all made, and she went to work at once to execute
+them.
+
+It was a dull afternoon, and the old-fashioned drawing-room, with its
+dying fire, and pale carpet, its worn stuffed furniture and pallid
+mirrors looked dreary.
+
+Mary had Susan Jenks replenish the fire.  Then she drew up to it one of
+the deep stuffed chairs and a lighter one of mahogany, which matched
+the low tea-table which was at the left of the fireplace.  She set a
+tapestry screen so that it cut off this corner from the rest of the
+room and from the door.
+
+Gordon had brought, the night before, a great box of flowers, and there
+were valley lilies among them.  Mary put the lilies on the table in a
+jar of gray-green pottery.  Then she went up-stairs and changed the
+street costume which she had worn to church for her old green velvet
+gown.  When she came down, the fire was snapping, and the fragrance of
+the lilies made sweet the screened space--Susan had placed on the
+little table a red lacquered tray, and an old silver kettle.
+
+Susan had also delivered the note which Mary had given her to the Tower
+Rooms.
+
+Until Roger came down Mary readjusted and rearranged everything.  She
+felt like a little girl who plays at keeping house.  Some new sense
+seemed waked within her, a sense which made her alive to the coziness
+and comfort and seclusion of this cut-off corner.  She found herself
+trying to see it all through Roger Poole's eyes.
+
+When he came at last around the corner of the screen, she smiled and
+gave him her hand.
+
+"This is to be our hour together.  I had to plan for it.  Did you ever
+feel that the world was so full of people that there was no corner in
+which to be--alone?"
+
+As he sat down in the big chair, and the light shone on his face, she
+saw how tired he looked, as if the days and the nights since she had
+seen him, had been days and nights of vigil.
+
+She felt a surging sense of sympathy, which set her trembling as she
+had trembled when she had touched his letter as it had laid on her
+desk, but when she spoke her voice was steady.
+
+"I am going to make you a cup of tea--then we can talk."
+
+He watched her as she made it, her deft hands unadorned, except by the
+one quaint ring, the whiteness of her skin set on by her green gown,
+the whiteness of her soul symbolized by the lilies.
+
+He leaned forward and spoke suddenly.  "Mary Ballard," he said, "if I
+ever reach paradise, I shall pray that it may be like this, with the
+golden light and the fragrance, and you in the midst of it."
+
+Earnestly over the lilies, she looked at him.  "Then you believe in
+Paradise?"
+
+"I should like to think that in some blessed future state I should come
+upon you in a garden of lilies."
+
+"Perhaps you will."  She was smiling, but her hand shook.
+
+She felt shy, almost tongue-tied.  She made him his tea, and gave him a
+cup; then she spoke of commonplaces, and the little kettle boiled and
+bubbled and sang as if there were no sorrow or sadness in the whole
+wide world.
+
+She came at last timidly to the thing she had to say.
+
+"I don't quite know how to begin about your letter.  You see when I
+read it, it wasn't easy for me at first to think straight.  I hadn't
+thought of you as having any such background to your life.  Somehow the
+outlines I had filled in were--different.  I am not quite sure what I
+had thought--only it had been nothing like--this."
+
+"I know.  You could not have been expected to imagine such a past."
+
+"Oh, it is not your past which weighs so heavily--on my heart; it is
+your future."
+
+Her eyes were full of tears.  She had not meant to say it just that
+way.  But it had come--her voice breaking on the last words.
+
+He did not speak at once, and then he said: "I have no right to trouble
+you with my future."
+
+"But I want to be troubled."
+
+"I shall not let you.  I shall not ask that of your friendship.  Last
+night when I came back to my rooms I found a rose blooming upon the
+pages of a book.  It seemed to tell me that I had not lost your
+friendship; and you have given me this hour.  This is all I have a
+right to ask of your generosity."
+
+She moved the jar of lilies aside, so that there might be nothing
+between them.  "If I am your friend, I must help you," she said, "or
+what would my friendship be worth?"
+
+"There is no help," he said, hurriedly, "not in the sense that I think
+you mean it.  My past has made my future.  I cannot throw myself into
+the fight again.  I know that I have been called all sorts of a coward
+for not facing life.  But I could face armies, if it were anything
+tangible.  I could do battle with a sword or a gun or my fists, if
+there were a visible adversary.  But whispers--you can't kill them; and
+at last they--kill you."
+
+"I don't want you to fight," she said, and now behind the whiteness of
+her skin there was a radiance.  "I don't want you to fight.  I want you
+to deliver your message."
+
+"What message?"
+
+"The message that every man who stands in the pulpit must have for the
+world, else he has no right to stand there."
+
+"You think then that I had no message?"
+
+"I think," and now her hand went out to him across the table, as if she
+would soften the words, "I think that if you had felt yourself called
+to do that one thing, that nothing would have swayed you from it--there
+are people not in the churches, who never go to church, who want what
+you have to give--there are the highways and hedges.  Oh, surely, not
+all of the people worth preaching to are the ones in the pews."
+
+She flung the challenge at him directly.
+
+And he flung it back to her, "If I had had such a woman as you in my
+life----"
+
+"Oh, don't, _don't_."  The radiance died.  "What has any woman to do
+with it?  It is you--yourself, who must stand the test."
+
+After the ringing words there was dead silence.  Roger sat leaning
+forward, his eyes not upon her, but upon the fire.  In his white face
+there was no hint of weakness; there was, rather, pride, obstinacy, the
+ruggedness of inflexible purpose.
+
+"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have not stood the test."
+
+Her clear eyes met his squarely.  "Then meet it now."
+
+For a moment he blazed.  "I know now what you think of me, that I am a
+man who has shirked."
+
+"You know I do not think that."
+
+He surrendered.  "I do know it.  And I need your help."
+
+Shaken by their emotion, they became conscious that this was indeed
+their hour.  She told him all that she had dreamed he might do.  Her
+color came and went as she drew the picture of his future.  Some of the
+advice she gave was girlish, impracticable, but through it all ran the
+thread of her faith to him.  She felt that she had the solution.  That
+through service he was to find--God.
+
+It was a wonderful hour for Roger Poole.  An hour which was to shine
+like a star in his memory.  Mary's mind had a largeness of vision, the
+ability to rise above the lesser things in order to reach the greater,
+which seemed super-feminine.  It was not until afterward when he
+reviewed what they had said, that he was conscious that she had placed
+the emphasis on what he was to do.  Not once had she spoken of what had
+been done--not once had she spoken of his wife.
+
+"You mustn't bury yourself.  You must find a way to reach first one
+group and then another.  And after a time you'll begin to feel that you
+can face the world."
+
+He winced.  As she put it into words, he began to see himself as others
+must have seen him.  And the review was not a pleasant one.
+
+In a sense that hour with Mary Ballard in the screened space by the
+fire was the hour of Roger Poole's spiritual awakening.  He realized
+for the first time that he had missed the meaning of the candles on the
+altar, the voices in the choir; he had missed the knowledge that one
+must spend and be spent in the service of humanity.
+
+"I must think it over," he said.  "You mustn't expect too much of me
+all at once."
+
+"I shall expect--everything."
+
+As she spoke and smiled, and it seemed to him that his old garment of
+fear slipped from him--as if he were clothed in the shining armor of
+her confidence in him.
+
+They had little time to talk after that, for it was not long before
+they heard without the bray of a motor horn.
+
+Roger rose at once.
+
+"I must go before they come," he said.
+
+But she laid her hand upon his arm.  "No," she said, "you are not to
+go.  You are never going to run away from the world again.  Set aside
+the screen, please--and stay."
+
+Porter, picked up on the way, came in with the others, to behold that
+glowing corner, and those two together.
+
+With his red crest flaming, he advanced upon them.
+
+"Somebody said 'tea.'  May I have some, Mary?"
+
+"When the kettle boils."  She had risen, and was holding out her hand
+to him.
+
+As the two men shook hands, Porter was conscious of some subtle change
+in Roger.  What had come over the man--had he dared to make love to
+Mary?
+
+And Mary?  He looked at her.
+
+She was serenely filling her tea ball.  She had lighted the lamp
+beneath her kettle, and the blue flame seemed to cast her still further
+back among the shadows of her corner.
+
+Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances had come back with the rest for tea.
+Grace's head, with Porter's, gave the high lights of the scene.  Barry
+had nicknamed them the "red-headed woodpeckers," and the name seemed
+justified.
+
+While Porter devoted himself to Grace, however, he was acutely
+conscious of every movement of Mary's.  Why had she given up her
+afternoon to Roger Poole?  He had asked if he might come, and she had
+said, "after four," and now it was after four, and the hour which she
+would not give him had been granted to this lodger in the Tower Rooms.
+
+It has been said before that Porter was not a snob, but to him Mary's
+attitude of friendliness toward this man, who was not one of them, was
+a matter of increasing irritation.  What was there about this tall thin
+chap with the tired eyes to attract a woman?  Porter was not conceited,
+but he knew that he possessed a certain value.  Of what value in the
+eyes of the world was Roger Poole--a government clerk, without
+ambition, handsome in his dark way, but pale and surrounded by an air
+of gloom?
+
+But to-night it was as if the gloom had lifted.  To-night Roger shone
+as he had shone on the night of the Thanksgiving party--he seemed
+suddenly young and splendid--the peer of them all.
+
+It came about naturally that, as they drank their tea, some one asked
+him to recite.
+
+"Please "--it was Mary who begged.
+
+Porter jealously intercepted the look which flashed between them, but
+could make nothing of it.
+
+"The Whittington one is too long," Roger stated, "and I haven't
+Pittiwitz for inspiration--but here's another."
+
+Leaning forward with his eyes on the fire, he gave it.
+
+It was a man's poem.  It was in the English of the hearty times of Ben
+Jonson and of Kit Marlowe--and every swinging line rang true.
+
+  "What will you say when the world is dying?
+  What when the last wild midnight falls,
+  Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying
+  Round the ruins of old St. Paul's?
+  What will be last of the lights to perish?
+  What but the little red ring we knew,
+  Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish
+  A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!"
+
+  CHORUS:
+  "Up now, answer me, tell me true.
+  What will be last of the stars to perish?
+  --The fire that lighteth a friend or two."
+
+
+As the last brave verse was ended, Gordon Richardson said, "By Jove,
+how it comes back to me--you used to recite Poe's 'Bells' at school."
+
+Roger laughed.  "Yes.  I fancy I made them boom toward the end."
+
+"You used to make me shiver and shake in my shoes."
+
+Aunt Frances' voice broke in crisply, "What do you mean, Gordon; were
+you at school with Mr. Poole?"
+
+"Yes.  St. Martin's, Aunt Frances."
+
+The name had a magic effect upon Mrs. Clendenning; the boys of St.
+Martin's were of the elect.
+
+"Poole?" she said.  "Are you one of the New York Pooles?"
+
+Roger nodded.  "Yes.  With a Southern grafting--my mother was a Carew."
+
+He was glad now to tell it.  Let them follow what clues they would.  He
+was ready for them.  Henceforth nothing was to be hidden.
+
+"I am going down next week," he continued, "to stay for a time with a
+cousin of my mother's--Miss Patty Carew.  She lives still in the old
+manor house which was my grandfather's--she hadn't much but poverty and
+the old house for an inheritance, but it is still a charming place."
+
+Aunt Frances was intent, however, on the New York branch of his family
+tree.
+
+"Was your grandfather Angus Poole?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+Grace was wickedly conscious of her mother's state of mind.  No one
+could afford to ignore any descendant of Angus Poole.  To be sure, a
+second generation had squandered the fortune he had left, but his name
+was still one to conjure with.
+
+"I never dreamed----" said Aunt Frances.
+
+"Naturally," said Roger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.  "I am
+afraid I'm not a credit to my hard-headed financier of a grandfather."
+
+It seemed to Mary that for the first time she was seeing him as he
+might have been before his trouble came upon him.  And she was swept
+forward to the thought of what he might yet be.  She grew warm and rosy
+in her delight that he should thus show himself to her people.  She
+looked up to find Porter's accusing eyes fixed on her; and in the grip
+of a sudden shyness, she gave herself again to her tea-making.
+
+"Surely some of you will have another cup?"
+
+It developed that Aunt Frances would, and that the water was cold, and
+that the little lamp was empty of alcohol.
+
+Mary filled it, and, her hand shaking from her inward excitement, let
+the alcohol overflow on the tray and on the kettle frame.  She asked
+for a match and Gordon gave her one.
+
+Then, nobody knew how it happened!  The flames seemed to sweep up in a
+blue sheet toward the lace frills in the front of Mary's gown.  It
+leaped toward her face.  Constance screamed.  Then Roger reached her,
+and she was in his arms, her face crushed against the thickness of his
+coat, his hands snatching at her frills.
+
+It was over in a moment.  The flames were out.  Very gently, he loosed
+his arms.  She lay against his shoulder white and still.  Her face was
+untouched, but across her throat, which the low collar had left
+exposed, was a hot red mark.  And a little lock of hair was singed at
+one side, her frills were in ruins.
+
+He put her into a chair, and they gathered around her--a solicitous
+group.  Porter knelt beside her.  "Mary, Mary," he kept saying, and she
+smiled weakly, as his voice broke on "Contrary Mary."
+
+Gordon had saved the table from destruction.  But the flame had caught
+the lilies, crisping them, and leaving them black.  Constance was
+shaken by the shock, and Aunt Frances kept asking wildly, "How did it
+happen?"
+
+"I spilled the alcohol when I filled it," Mary said.  "It was a silly
+thing to do--if I had had on one of my thinner gowns----"  She
+shuddered and stopped.
+
+"I shall send you an electric outfit to-morrow," Porter announced.
+"Don't fool with that thing again, Mary."
+
+Roger stood behind her chair, with his arms folded on the top and said
+nothing.  There was really nothing for him to say, but there were many
+things to think.  He had saved that dear face from flame or flaw, the
+dear eyes had been hidden against his shoulder--his fingers smarted
+where he had clutched at her burning frills.
+
+Porter Bigelow might take possession of her now, he might give her
+electric outfits, he might call her by her first name, but it had not
+been Porter who had saved her from the flames; it had not been Porter
+who had held her in his arms.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+_In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens, and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure._
+
+
+It had been decided that, for a time at least, Gordon and Constance
+should stay with Mary.  In the spring they would again go back to
+London.  Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances were already installed for
+the winter at their hotel.
+
+The young couple would occupy the Sanctum and the adjoining room, and
+Mary was to take on an extra maid to help Susan Jenks.
+
+In all her planning, Mary had a sense of the pervasiveness of Gordon
+Richardson.  With masculine confidence in his ability, he took upon
+himself not only his wife's problems, but Mary's.  Mary was forced to
+admit, even while she rebelled, that his judgments were usually wise.
+Yet, she asked herself, what right had an outsider to dictate in
+matters which pertained to herself and Barry?  And what right had he to
+offer her board for Constance?  Constance, who was her very own?
+
+But when she had indignantly voiced her objection to Gordon, he had
+laughed.  "You are like all women, Mary," he had said, "and of course I
+appreciate your point of view and your hospitality.  But if you think
+that I am going to let my wife stay here and add to your troubles and
+expense without giving adequate compensation, you are vastly mistaken.
+If you won't let us pay, we won't stay, and that's all there is to it."
+
+Here was masculine firmness against which Mary might rage impotently.
+After all, Constance was Gordon's wife, and he could carry her off.
+
+"Of course," she said, yielding stiffly, "you must do as you think
+best."
+
+"I shall," he said, easily, "and I will write you a check now, and you
+can have it to settle any immediate demands upon your exchequer.  I
+shall be away a good deal, and I want Constance to be with you and Aunt
+Isabelle.  It is a favor to me, Mary, to have her here.  You mustn't
+add to my obligations by making me feel too heavily in your debt."
+
+He smiled as he said it, and Gordon had a nice smile.  And presently
+Mary found herself smiling back.
+
+"Gordon," she said, in a half apology, "Porter calls me Contrary Mary.
+Maybe I am--but you see, Constance was my sister before she was your
+wife."
+
+He leaned back in his chair and looked at her.  "And you've had twenty
+years more of her than I--but please God, Mary, I am going to have
+twenty beautiful years ahead of me to share with her--I hope it may be
+three times twenty."
+
+His voice shook, and in that moment Mary felt nearer to him than ever
+before.
+
+"Oh, Gordon," she said, "I'm a horrid little thing.  I've been jealous
+because you took Constance away from me.  But now I'm glad you--took
+her, and I hope I'll live to dance at your--golden wedding."  And then,
+most unexpectedly, she found herself sobbing, and Gordon was patting
+her on the back in a big-brotherly way, and saying that he didn't blame
+her a bit, and that if anybody wanted to take Constance away from him,
+they'd have to do it over his dead body.
+
+Then he wrote the check, and Mary took it, and in the knowledge of his
+munificence, felt the relief from certain financial burdens.
+
+Before he left her, Gordon, hesitating, referred gravely to another
+subject.
+
+"And it will be better for you to have Constance here if Barry goes
+away."
+
+"Barry?" breathlessly.
+
+"Yes.  Don't you think he ought to go, Mary?"
+
+"No," she said, stubbornly; "where could he go?"
+
+"Anywhere away from Leila.  He mustn't marry that child.  Not yet--not
+until he has proved himself a man."
+
+The blow hit her heavily.  Yet her sense of justice told her that he
+was right.
+
+"I can't talk about it," she said, unsteadily; "Barry is all I have
+left."
+
+He rose.  "Poor little girl.  We must see how we can work it out.  But
+we've got to work it out.  It mustn't drift."
+
+Left alone, Mary sat down at her desk and faced the future.  With Roger
+gone, and Barry going----
+
+And the Tower Rooms empty!
+
+She shivered.  Before her stretched the darkness and storms of a long
+winter.  Even Constance's coming would not make up for it.  And yet a
+year ago Constance had seemed everything.
+
+She crossed the hall to the dining-room and looked out of the window.
+The garden was dead.  The fountain had ceased to play.  But the little
+bronze boy still flung his gay defiance to wind and weather.
+
+Pittiwitz, following her, murmured a mewing complaint.  Mary picked her
+up; since Roger's going the gray cat had kept away from the emptiness
+of the upper rooms.
+
+With the little purring creature hugged close, Mary reviewed her
+worries--the world was at sixes and sevens.  Even Porter was proving
+difficult.  Since the Sunday when Roger had saved her from the fire,
+Porter had adopted an air of possession.  He claimed her at all times
+and seasons; she had a sense of being caught in a web woven of kindness
+and thoughtfulness and tender care, but none the less a web which held
+her fast and against her will.
+
+Whimsically it came to her that the four men in her life were opposed
+in groups of two: Gordon and Porter stood arrayed on the side of
+logical preferences; Barry and Roger on the side of illogical
+sympathies.
+
+Gordon had conveyed to her, in rather subtle fashion, his disapproval
+of Roger.  It was only in an occasional phrase, such as "Poor Poole,"
+or "if all of his story were known."  But Mary had grasped that, from
+the standpoint of her brother-in-law, a man who had failed to fulfil
+the promise of his youth might be dismissed as a social derelict.
+
+As for Barry--the situation with regard to him had become acute.  His
+first disappearance after the coming of Constance had resulted in
+Gordon's assuming the responsibility of the search for him.  He had
+found Barry in a little town on the upper Potomac, ostensibly on a
+fishing trip, and again there was a need for fighting dragons.
+
+But Gordon did not fight with the same weapons as Roger Poole.  His
+arguments had been shrewd, keen, but unsympathetic.  And the result had
+been a strained relation between him and Barry.  The boy had felt
+himself misunderstood.  Gordon had sat in judgment.  Constance had
+tearfully agreed with Gordon, and Mary, torn between her sense of
+Gordon's rightness, and her own championship of Barry, had been strung
+to the point of breaking.
+
+She turned from the window, and went up-stairs slowly.  In the Sanctum,
+Constance and Aunt Isabelle were sewing.  At last Aunt Isabelle had
+come into her own.  She spent her days in putting fine stitches into
+infinitesimal garments.  There was about her constantly the perfume of
+the sachet powder with which she was scenting the fine lawn and lace
+which glorified certain baskets and bassinets.  When she was not sewing
+she was knitting--little silken socks for a Cupid's foot, little warm
+caps, doll's size; puffy wool blankets on big wooden needles.
+
+The Sanctum had taken on the aspect of a bower.  Here Constance sat
+enthroned--and in her gentleness reminded Mary more and more of her
+mother.  Here was always the sweetness of the flowers with which Gordon
+kept his wife supplied; here, too, was an atmosphere of serene waiting
+for a supreme event.
+
+Mary, entering with Pittiwitz in her arms, tried to cast away her
+worries on the threshold.  She must not be out of tune with this
+symphony.  She smiled and sat down beside Constance.  "Such lovely
+little things," she said; "what can I do?"
+
+It seemed that there was a debate on, relative to the suitability of
+embroidery as against fine tucks.
+
+Mary settled it.  "Let me have it," she said; "I'll put in a few tucks
+and a little embroidery--I shall be glad to have my fingers busy."
+
+"You're always so occupied with other things," Constance complained,
+gently.  "I don't see half enough of you."
+
+"You have Gordon," Mary remarked.
+
+"You say that as if it really made a difference."
+
+"It does," Mary murmured.  Then, lest she trouble Constance's gentle
+soul, she added bravely, "But Gordon's a dear.  And you're a lucky
+girl."
+
+"I know I am."  Constance was complacent.  "And I knew you'd recognize
+it, when you'd seen more of Gordon."
+
+Mary felt a rising sense of rebellion.  She was not in a mood to hear a
+catalogue of Gordon's virtues.  But she smiled, bravely.  "I'll admit
+that he is perfect," she said; "we won't quarrel over it, Con, dear."
+
+But to herself she was saying, "Oh, I should hate to marry a perfect
+man."
+
+All the morning she sat there, her needle busy, and gradually she was
+soothed by the peace of the pleasant room.  The world seemed brighter,
+her problems receded.
+
+Just before luncheon was announced came Aunt Frances and Grace.
+
+They brought gifts, wonderful little things, made by the nuns of
+France--sheer, exquisite, tied with pale ribbons.
+
+"We are going from here to Leila's," Aunt Frances informed them; "we
+ordered some lovely trousseau clothes and they came with these."
+
+Trousseau clothes?  Leila's?  Mary's needle pricked the air for a
+moment.
+
+"They haven't set the day, you know, Aunt Frances; it will be a long
+engagement."
+
+"I don't believe in long engagements," Aunt Frances' tone was final;
+"they are not wise.  Barry ought to settle down."
+
+Nobody answered.  There was nothing to say, but Mary was oppressed by
+the grim humor of it all.  Here was Aunt Frances bearing garments for
+the bride, while Gordon was planning to steal the bridegroom.
+
+She stood up.  "You better stay to lunch," she said; "it is Susan
+Jenks' hot roll day, and you know her rolls."
+
+Aunt Frances peeled off her long gloves.  "I hoped you'd ask us, we are
+so tired of hotel fare."
+
+Grace laughed.  "Mother is of old New York," she said, "and better for
+her are hot rolls and chops from her own kitchen range, than caviar and
+truffles from the hands of a hotel chef--in spite of all of our globe
+trotting, she hasn't caught the habit of meals with the mob."
+
+Grace went down with Mary, and the two girls found Susan Jenks with the
+rolls all puffy and perfect in their pans.
+
+"There's plenty of them," she said to Mary, "an' if the croquettes give
+out, you can fill up on rolls."
+
+"Susan," Grace said, "when Mary gets married will you come and keep
+house for me?"
+
+Susan smiled.  "Miss Mary ain't goin' to git married."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"She ain't that kind.  She's the kind that looks at a man and studies
+about him, and then she waves him away and holds up her head, and says,
+'I'm sorry, but you won't do.'"
+
+The two girls laughed.  "How did you get that idea of me, Susan?" Mary
+asked.
+
+"By studyin' you," said Susan.  "I ain't known you all your life for
+nothin'.
+
+"Now Miss Constance," she went on, as she opened the oven and peeped
+in, "Miss Constance is just the other way.  'Most any nice man was
+bound to git her.  An' it was lucky that Mr. Gordon was the first."
+
+"And what about me?" was Grace's demand.
+
+"Go 'way," said Susan, "you knows yo'se'f, Miss Grace.  You bats your
+eyes at everybody, and gives your heart to nobody."
+
+"And so Mary and I are to be old maids--oh, Susan."
+
+"They don't call them old maids any more," Susan said, "and they ain't
+old maids, not in the way they once was.  An old maid is a woman who
+ain't got any intrus' in life but the man she can't have, and you all
+is the kin' that ain't got no intrus' in the men that want you."
+
+They left her, laughing, and when they reached the dining-room they sat
+down on the window-seat; where Mary had gazed out upon the dead garden
+and the bronze boy.
+
+"And now," said Grace, "tell me about Roger Poole."
+
+"There isn't much to tell.  He's given up his position in the Treasury,
+and he's gone down to his cousin's home for a while.  He's going to try
+to write for the magazines; he thinks that stories of that section will
+take."
+
+"He's in love with you, Mary.  But you're not in love with him--and you
+mustn't be."
+
+"Of course not.  I'm not going to marry, Grace."
+
+Grace gave her a little squeeze.  "You don't know what you are going to
+do, darling; no woman does.  But I don't want you to fall in love with
+anybody yet.  Flit through life with me for a time.  I'll take you to
+Paris next summer, and show you my world."
+
+"I couldn't, unless I could pay my own way."
+
+"Oh, Mary, what makes you fight against anybody doing anything for you?"
+
+"Porter says it is my contrariness---but I just can't hold out my hands
+and let things drop into them."
+
+"I know--and that's why you won't marry Porter Bigelow."
+
+Mary flashed at her a surprised and grateful glance.  "Grace," she
+said, solemnly, "you're the first person who has seemed to understand."
+
+"And I understand," said Grace, "because to me life is a Great
+Adventure.  Everything that happens is a hazard on the highway--as yet
+I haven't found a man who will travel the road with me; they all want
+to open a gate and shut me in and say, 'Stay here.'"
+
+Mary's eyes were shining.  "I feel that, too."
+
+Grace kissed her.  "You'd laugh, Mary, if I told the dream which is at
+the end of my journey."
+
+"I sha'n't laugh--tell me."
+
+There was a rich color in Grace's cheeks.  In her modish frock of the
+black which she affected, and which was this morning of fine serge set
+on by a line of fur at hem and wrist, and topped by a little hat of
+black velvet which framed the vividness of her glorious hair, she
+looked the woman of the world, so that her words gained strength by
+force of contrast.
+
+"Nobody would believe it," she prefaced, "but, Mary Ballard, some day
+when I'm tired of dancing through life, when I am weary of the
+adventures on the road, I'm going to build a home for little children,
+and spend my days with them."
+
+So the two girls dreamed dreams and saw visions of the future.  They
+sang and soared, they kissed and confided.
+
+"Whatever comes, life shall never be commonplace," Mary declared, and
+as the bell rang and she went to the table, she felt that now nothing
+could daunt her--the hard things would be merely a part of a glorious
+pilgrimage.
+
+Susan's hot rolls were pronounced perfect, and Susan, serenely
+conscious of it, banished the second maid to the kitchen and waited on
+the table herself.
+
+Here were five women of one clan.  She understood them all, she loved
+them all.  She gave even to Aunt Frances her due.  "They all holds
+their heads high," she had confided on one occasion to Roger Poole,
+"and Miss Frances holds hers so high that she almost bends back, but
+she knows how to treat the people who work for her, and she's always
+been mighty good to me."
+
+Mary's mood of exaltation lasted long after her guests had departed.
+She found herself singing as she climbed the stairs that night to her
+room.  And it was with this mood still upon her that she wrote to Roger
+Poole.
+
+Her letter, penned on the full tide of her new emotion, was like wine
+to his thirsty soul.  It began and ended formally, but every line
+throbbed with hope and courage, and responding to the note which she
+had struck, he wrote back to her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+_In Which Mary Writes From the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+From Among the Pines._
+
+
+_The Tower Rooms._
+
+Dear Mr. Poole:
+
+I have taken your rooms for mine, and this is my first evening in them.
+Pittiwitz is curled up under the lamp.  She misses you and so do I.
+Even now, it seems as if your books ought to be on the table; and that
+I ought to be talking to you instead of writing.
+
+I liked your letter.  It seemed to tell me that you were hopeful and at
+home.  You must tell me about the house and your Cousin Patty--about
+everything in your life--and you must send me your first story.
+
+Here everything is the same.  Constance will be with me until spring,
+and we are to have a quiet Thanksgiving and a quiet Christmas with just
+the family, and Leila and the General.  Porter Bigelow goes to Palm
+Beach to be with his mother.  I don't know why we always count him in
+as one of the family except that he never waits for an invitation, and
+of course we're glad to have him.  Mother and father used to feel sorry
+for him; he was always a sort of "Poor-little-rich-boy" whose money cut
+him out from lots of good times that families have who don't live in
+such formal fashion as Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow seem to enjoy.
+
+As soon as Constance leaves, I am going to work.  I haven't told any
+one, for when I hinted at it, Constance was terribly upset, and asked
+me to live with her and Gordon.  Grace wants me to go to Paris with
+her; Barry and Leila have stated that I can have a home with them.
+
+But I don't want a home with anybody.  I want to live my own life, as I
+have told you.  I want to try my wings.  I don't believe you quite like
+the idea of my working.  Nobody does, not even Grace Clendenning,
+although Grace seems to understand me better than any one else.
+
+Grace and I have been talking to-day about life as a great adventure.
+And it seems to me that we have the right idea.  So many people go
+through life as just something to be endured, but I want to make things
+happen, or rather, if big things don't happen, I want to see in the
+little things something that is interesting.  I don't believe that any
+life need be common-place.  It is just the way we look at it.  I'm
+copying these words which I read in one of your books; perhaps you've
+seen them, but anyhow it will tell you better than I what I mean.
+
+"But life is a great adventure, and the worst of all fears is the fear
+of living.  There are many forms of success, many forms of triumph.
+But there is no other success that in any way approaches that which is
+open to most of the many men and women who have the right idea.  These
+are the men and the women who see that it is the intimate and homely
+things that count most.  They are the men and women who have the
+courage to strive for the happiness which comes only with labor and
+effort and self-sacrifice, and only to those whose joy in life springs
+in part from power of work and sense of duty."
+
+Aren't those words like a strong wind blowing from the sea?  I just
+love them.  And I know you will.  I am so glad that I can talk to you
+of such things.  Everybody has to have a friend who can understand--and
+that's the fine thing about our friendship--that we both have things to
+overcome, and that our letters can be reports of progress.
+
+Of course the things which I have to overcome are just little fussy
+woman things--but they are big to me because I am breaking away from
+family traditions.  All the women our household have followed the
+straight and narrow path of conventional living.  Even Grace does it,
+although she rebels inwardly--but Aunt Frances keeps her to it.  Once
+Grace tried to be an artist, and she worked hard in Paris, until Aunt
+Frances swooped down and carried her off--Grace still speaks of that
+time in Paris as her year out of prison.  You see she worked hard and
+met people who worked, too, and it interested her.  She had a studio
+apartment, and was properly chaperoned by a little widow who went with
+her and shared her rooms.
+
+But Aunt Frances popped in on them suddenly one day and found a
+Bohemian party.  There wasn't anything wrong about it, Grace says, but
+you know Aunt Frances!  She has never ceased to talk about the frumpy
+crowd she met there.  She hated the students in their velvet coats and
+the women with their poor queer clothes.  And Grace loved them.  But
+she's given up the idea of ever living there again.  She says you can't
+do a thing twice and have it the same.  I don't know.  I only know that
+Grace may seem frivolous on the outside, but that underneath she is
+different.  She has taken up advanced ideas about women, and she says
+that I have them naturally, and that she didn't expect such a thing in
+Washington where everybody stops to think what somebody else is going
+to say.  But I haven't arrived at the point where I am really
+interested in Suffrage and things like that.  Grace says that I must
+begin to look beyond my own life, and perhaps when I get some of my own
+problems settled, I will.  And then I shall be taking up the problems
+of the girls in factories and the girls in laundries and the girls in
+the big shops, as Grace is.  She says that she may live like a
+bond-slave herself, but she'd like to help other women to be free.
+
+And now I must tell you about Delilah Jeliffe.  She had a house-warming
+last week.  The old house in Georgetown is a dream.  Delilah hasn't a
+superfluous or gorgeous thing in it.  Everything is keyed to the
+old-family note.  Some of the things are even shabby.  She has done
+away with flamingo colors, and her monkeys with the crystal ball and
+the peacock screen.  She has little stools in her drawing-room with
+faded covers of canvas work, and she has samplers and cracked
+portraits, and the china doesn't all match.  There isn't a sign of "new
+richness" in the place.  She keeps colored servants, and doesn't wear
+rings, and her gowns are frilly flowing white things which make her
+look like one of those demure grandmotherly young persons of the early
+sixties.
+
+Her little artist is a charming blond who doesn't come up to her
+shoulders, and Delilah hangs on every word he says.  For the moment he
+obscures all the other men on her horizon.  He made sketches of the way
+every room in her house ought to look.  And what seems to be the result
+of years of formal pleasant living really is the result of the months
+of hunting and hard work which he and Delilah have put in.  He even
+indicates the flowers she shall wear, and those which are to bloom next
+summer in her garden.  She affects heliotrope, and on the night of her
+house-warming she carried a tight bunch of it with a few pink rosebuds.
+
+Really, in her new rôle Delilah is superb.  And, people are beginning
+to notice her and to call on her.  Even in this short time she has been
+invited to some very good houses.  She has a new way with her eyes, and
+drops her lashes over them, and is very still and lovely.
+
+Do you remember her leopard skins of last year?  Well, now she wears
+moleskins--a queer dolman-shaped wrap of them, and a little hat with a
+dull blue feather, and she drapes a black lace veil over the hat and
+looks like a duchess.
+
+Grace Clendenning says that Delilah and her artist will achieve a
+triumph if they keep on.  They aren't trying to storm society, they are
+trying to woo it, and out of it the artist gets the patronage of the
+people whom he meets through Delilah.  Perhaps it will end by Delilah's
+marrying him.  But Grace says not.  She says that Delilah simply
+squeezes people dry, like so many oranges, and when she has what she
+wants, she throws them aside.
+
+Yet Grace and Delilah get along very well together.  Grace has always
+made a study of clothes, because it is the only way in which she can
+find an outlet for her artistic tastes.  And she is interested in
+Delilah's methods.   She says that they are masterly.
+
+But I am forgetting to tell you what Delilah said of you.  It was on
+the night of her house-warming.  She asked about you, and when I said
+that you had gone south to get atmosphere for some stories you were
+writing, she said:
+
+"Do you know it came to me yesterday, while I was in church, where I
+had seen him.  It was the same text, and that was what brought it back.
+He was _preaching_, my dear.  I remember that I sat in the front pew
+and looked up at him, and thought that I had never heard such a voice;
+and now, tell me why he has given it up, and why he is burying himself
+in the South?"
+
+At first I didn't know just what to say, and then I thought it best to
+tell the truth.  So I looked straight at her, and said: "He made a most
+unhappy marriage, and gave up his life-work.  But now his wife is dead,
+and some day he may preach again."  Was it wrong for me to say that?  I
+do hope you are going to preach; somehow I feel that you will.  And
+anyhow while people need never know the details of your story, they
+will have to know the outlines.  It seemed to me that the easiest way
+was to tell it and have it over.
+
+Of course Gordon has asked some questions, and I have told what I
+thought should be told.  I hope that you won't feel that I have been
+unwise.  I thought it best to start straight, and then there would be
+nothing to hide.
+
+And now may I tell you a little bit about Barry?  They want him to go
+away--back to England with Gordon and Constance.  You see Gordon looks
+at it without sentiment.  Gordon's sentiment stops at Constance.  He
+thinks that Barry should simply give Leila up, go away, and not come
+back until he can show a clear record.
+
+Of course I know that Gordon is right.  But I can't bear it--that's why
+I haven't been able to face things with quite the courage that I
+thought I could.  But since my talk with Grace, I am going to look at
+it differently.  I shall try to feel that Barry's going is best, and
+that he must ride away gallantly, and come back with trumpets blowing
+and flags flying.
+
+And that's the way you must some day come into your own.--I like to
+think about it.  I like to think about victory and conquest, instead of
+defeat and failure.  Somehow thinking about a thing seems to bring it,
+don't you think?
+
+Oh, but this is such a long letter, and it is gossipy, and scrappy.
+But that's the way we used to talk, and you seemed to like it.
+
+And now I'll say "Good-night."  Pittiwitz waked up a moment ago, and
+walked across this sheet, and the blot is where she stepped on a word.
+So that's her message.  But my message is Psalms 27:14.  You can look
+it up in father's Bible--I am so glad you took it with you.  But
+perhaps you don't have to look up verses; you probably know everything
+by heart.  Do you?
+
+Sincerely ever,
+
+MARY BALLARD.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+My good little friend:
+
+I am not going to try to tell you what your letter meant to me.  It was
+the bluebird's song in the spring, the cool breeze in the desert,
+sunlight after storm--it was everything that stands for satisfaction
+after a season of discomfort or of discontent.
+
+Yet, except that I miss the Tower Rooms, and miss, too, the great
+happiness I found in pursuing our friendship at close range, I should
+have no reason here either for discomfort or lack of content--if I feel
+the world somewhat barren, it is not because of what I have found, but
+because of what I have brought with me.
+
+I like to think of you in the Tower Rooms.  You always belonged there,
+and I felt like a usurper when I came and discovered that all of your
+rosy belongings had been moved down-stairs and my staid and stiff
+things were in their place.  It is queer, isn't it, the difference in
+the atmosphere made by a man and by a woman.  A man dares not surround
+himself with pale and pretty colors and delicate and dainty things,
+lest he be called effeminate--perhaps that's why men take women into
+their lives, so that they may have the things which they crave without
+having their masculinity questioned.
+
+Yet the atmosphere which seems to fit you best is not merely one of
+rosiness and prettiness; it is rather that of sunshine and
+out-of-doors.  When you talk or write to me I have the sensation of
+being swept on and on by your enthusiasms--I seem to fly on strong
+wings--the quotation which you gave is the utterance of some one else,
+but you unerringly selected, and passed it on to me, and so in a sense
+made it your own.  I am going to copy it and illumine it, and keep it
+where I can see it at all times.
+
+I find that I do not travel as fast as you toward my future.  I have
+shut myself up for many years.  I have been so sure that all the wine
+of life was spilled, that the path ahead of me was dreary, that I
+cannot see myself at all with trumpets blowing, with flags flying and
+the rest of it.  Perhaps I shall some day--and at least I shall try,
+and in the trying there will be something gained.  Some day, perhaps, I
+shall reach the upper air where you soar--perhaps I shall "mount as an
+eagle."
+
+Your message----!  Dear child--do you know how sweet you are?  I don't
+know all the verses--but that one I do know.  Yet I had let myself
+forget, and you brought it back to me with all its strong assurance.
+
+Your decision that it was best to tell what there is to tell, to let
+nothing be hidden, is one which I should have made long ago.  Only of
+late have I realized that concealment brings in its train a thousand
+horrors.  One lives in fear, dreading that which must inevitably come.
+Yet I do not think I must be blamed too much.  I was beaten and bruised
+by the knowledge of my overthrow.  I only wanted to crawl into a hole
+and be forgotten.
+
+Even now, I find myself unfolding slowly.  I have lived so long in the
+dark, and the light seems to blind my eyes!
+
+It is strange that I should have remembered Delilah Jeliffe, but not
+strange that she should have remembered me; for I stood alone in the
+pulpit, but she was one of a crowd.  Since your letter, I have been
+thinking back, and I can see her as she sat reading in the front pew,
+big and rather fine with her black hair and her bold eyes.  I think
+that perhaps the thing which made me remember her was the fleeting
+thought that her type stood usually for the material in woman, and I
+wondered if in her case outward appearances were as deceptive as they
+were in my wife--with her saint's eyes, and her distorted moral vision.
+Perhaps I was intuitively right, and that beneath Delilah Jeliffe's
+exterior there is a certain fineness, and that these funny fads of
+dress and decorations are merely in some way her striving toward the
+expression of her real self.
+
+What you tell me of your talk with your cousin Grace interests me very
+much.  I fancy she is more womanly than she is willing to admit.  Yet
+she should marry.  Every woman should marry, except you--who are going
+to be my friend!  There peeps out my selfishness--but I shall let it
+stand.
+
+No, I don't like the idea that you must work.  I don't want you to try
+your wings.  I want you to sit safe in your nest in the top of the
+Tower, and write letters to me!
+
+Labor, office drudgery, are things which sap the color from a woman's
+cheeks, and strength from her body.  She grows into a machine, and you
+are a bird, to fly and light on the nearest branch and sing!
+
+But now you will want to know something of my life, and of the house
+and of Cousin Patty.
+
+The house has suffered from the years of poverty since the War.  Yet it
+has still about it something of the dignity of an ancient ruin.  It is
+a big frame structure with the Colonial pillars which belong to the
+period of its building.  Many of the rooms are closed.  My own suite is
+on the second floor--Cousin Patty's opposite, and adjoining her rooms
+those of an old aunt who is a pensioner.
+
+There is little of the old mahogany which once made the rooms stately,
+and little of the old silver to grace the table.  Cousin Patty's
+poverty is combined, happily, with common sense.  She has known the
+full value of her antiques, and has preferred good food to family
+traditions.  Yet there are the old portraits and in her living-room a
+few choice pieces.  Here we have an open fire, and here we sit o'
+nights.
+
+Cousin Patty is small, rather white and thin, and she is fifty-five.  I
+tell you her age, because in a way it explains many things which would
+otherwise puzzle you.  She was born just before the war.  She knew
+nothing of the luxury of the days of slavery.  She has twisted and
+turned and economized all of her life.  She has struggled with all the
+problems which beset the South in Reconstruction times, and she has
+come out if it all, sweet and shrewd, and with a point of view about
+women which astonishes me, and which gives us a chance for many
+sprightly arguments.  Her black hair is untouched with gray, she wears
+it parted and in a thick knot high on her head.  Her gowns are
+invariably of black silk, well cut and well made.  She makes them
+herself, and gets her patterns from New York!  Can you see her now?
+
+Our arguments are usually about women, and their position in the world
+to-day.  You know I am conservative, clinging much to old ideals, old
+fashions, to the beliefs of gentler times--but Cousin Patty in this
+backwater of civilization has gone far ahead of me.  She believes that
+the hope of the South is in its women.  "They read more than the men,"
+she says, "and they have responded more quickly to the new social
+ideals."
+
+But of our arguments more in another letter--this will serve, however,
+to introduce you to some of the astonishing mental processes of this
+little marooned cousin of mine.
+
+For in a sense she is marooned.  Once upon a time when Cotton was king,
+and slave labor made all things possible, there was prosperity here,
+but now the land is impoverished.  So Cousin Patty does not depend upon
+the land.  She read in some of her magazines of a woman who had made a
+fortune in wedding cake.  She resolved that what one woman could do
+could be done by another.  Hence she makes and sells wedding cake, and
+while she has not made a fortune she has made a living.  She began by
+asking friends for orders; she now gets orders from near and far.
+
+So all day there is the good smell of baking in the house, and the
+sound of the whisking of eggs.  And every day little boxes have to be
+filled.  Will you smile when I tell you that I like the filling of the
+little boxes?  And that while we talk o' nights, I busy myself with
+this task, while Cousin Patty does things with narrow white ribbon and
+bits of artificial orange blossoms, so that the packages which go out
+may be as beautiful and bride-y as possible.
+
+It is strange, when one thinks of it, that I came to your house on a
+wedding night, and here I live in a perpetual atmosphere of wedding
+blisses.
+
+In the morning I write.  In the afternoon I do other things.  The
+weather is not cold--it is dry and sunshiny--windless.  I take long
+walks over the hills and far away.  Some of it is desolate country
+where the boxed pines have fallen, or where an area has been burned but
+one comes now and then upon groves of shimmering and shining young
+trees,--is there any tree as beautiful as a young pine with the
+sunshine on it?
+
+It is rare to find a grove of old pines, yet there are one or two
+estates where for years no trees have been cut or burned, and beneath
+these tall old singing monarchs I sit on the brown needles, and write
+and write--to what end I know not.
+
+I have not one finished story to show you, though the beginnings of
+many.  The pen is not my medium.  My thoughts seem to dry up when I try
+to put them on paper.  It is when I talk that I grow most eloquent.
+Oh, little friend, shall I ever make the world listen again?
+
+I am going to tell you presently of those who have listened, down
+here--such an audience--and in such an amphitheater!
+
+My walks take me far afield.  The roads are sandy, and I do not always
+follow them, preferring, rather, the dunes which remind me so much of
+those by the sea.  Once upon a time this ground was the ocean's bed--I
+have the feeling always that just beyond the low hills I shall glimpse
+the blue.
+
+Now and then I meet some darkey of the old school with his cheery
+greeting; now and then on the highroad a schooner wagon sails by.
+These wagons give one the queer feeling of being set back to pioneer
+days,--do you remember the Pike's Peak picture at the Capitol with all
+the eager faces turned toward the setting sun?
+
+Now and then I run across a hunting party from one of the big hotels
+which are getting to be plentiful in this healthy region, but these
+people with their sporting clothes and their sophistication always seem
+out of place among the pines.
+
+And now, since you have written to me of life as a journey on the
+highroad, I will tell you of my first adventure.
+
+There's a schooner-man who comes from the sandhills on his way to the
+nearest resort with his chickens and eggs.  It is a three days'
+journey, and he camps out at night, sleeping in his wagon, building his
+fire in the open.
+
+One day he passed me as I sat tired by the wayside, and offered to give
+me a lift toward home.  I accepted, and rode beside him.  And thus
+began an acquaintance which interests me, and evidently pleases him.
+
+He is tall and loosely put together, this knight of the Sandy Road, but
+with the ease of manner which seems to belong to his kind.  There's
+good blood in these sand-hill people, and it shows in a lack of
+self-consciousness which makes one feel that they would meet a prince
+or an emperor without embarrassment.  Yet there's nothing of
+forwardness, nothing of impertinence.  It is a drawing-room manner,
+preserved in spite of generations of illiteracy and degeneration.
+
+He is not an unpicturesque object.  Given a plumed hat, a doublet and
+hose, and he would look the part, and his manner would fit in with it.
+Given good English, his voice would never betray him for what he is.
+For another thing that these people have preserved is a softness of
+voice and an inflection which is Elizabethan rather than twentieth
+century American.
+
+Having grown to know him fairly well, I fished for an invitation to
+visit his home.  I wanted to see where this gentlemanly backwoodsman
+spent the days which were not lived on the road.
+
+I carried a rug with me, and slept for the first night under the open
+sky.  Have you ever seen a southern sky when it was studded with stars?
+If not, there's something yet before you.  There's no whiteness or
+coldness about these stars, they are pure gold, and warm with light.
+
+My schooner-man slept in his wagon, covered with an old quilt.  His
+mules were picketed close by, the dog curled himself beside his master,
+each getting warmth from the other.
+
+We cooked supper and breakfast over the coals--chickens broiled for our
+evening meal, ham and eggs for the morning.  We gave the dog the bones
+and the crusts.  I took bread with me, for Cousin Patty warned me that
+I must not depend upon my squire for food.  Cooking among these people
+is a lost art.  Cousin Patty believes that the regeneration of the poor
+whites of the South will be accomplished through the women.  "When they
+learn to cook," she says, "the men won't need whiskey.  When the
+whiskey goes, they'll respect the law."
+
+A mile before we reached the end of our journey, we were met by the
+children of my schooner-squire.  Five of them--two boys, two girls, and
+a baby in the arms of the oldest girl.  They all had the gentle quiet
+and ease of the father--but they were unkempt little creatures,
+uncombed, unwashed, in sad-colored clothes.  That's the difference
+between the negro and the white man of this region.  The negro is
+cheerful, debonair, he sings, he dances, and he wears all the colors of
+the rainbow.  An old black woman who carries home my wash wore the
+other day a purple petticoat with a scarlet skirt looped above it, an
+old green sweater, and, tied over her head, a pink wool shawl.  Against
+the neutral background of sandy hill she was a delight to the eye.  The
+whites on the other hand seem like little animals, who have taken on
+the color of the landscape that they may be hidden.
+
+But to go back to my sad children.  It seemed to me that in them I was
+seeing the South with new eyes, perhaps because I have been away just
+long enough to get the proper perspective.  And my life has been, you
+see, lived in the Southern cities, where one touches rarely the
+primitive.
+
+The older boys are, perhaps, ten and twelve, blue-eyed and tow-headed.
+I saw few signs of affection or intelligence.  They did not kiss their
+father when he came, except the small girl, who ran to him and was
+hugged; the others seemed to practice a sort of incipient stoicism, as
+if they were too old, too settled, for demonstration.
+
+The mother, as we entered, was like her children.  None of them has the
+initiative or the energy of the man.  They are subdued by the
+changeless conditions of their environment; his one adventure of the
+week keeps him alert and alive.
+
+It is a desolate country, charred pines sticking up straight from white
+sand.  It might be made beautiful if for every tree that they tapped
+for turpentine they would plant a new one.
+
+But they don't know enough to make things beautiful.  The Moses of this
+community will be some man who shall find new methods of farming, new
+crops for this soil, who will show the people how to live.
+
+And now I come to a strange fairy-tale sort of experience--an
+experience with the children who have lived always among these charred
+pines.
+
+All that evening as I talked, their eyes were upon me, like the eyes of
+little wild creatures of the wood--a blank gaze which seemed to
+question.  The next day when I walked, they went with me, and for some
+distance I carried the baby, to rest the arms of the big girl, who is
+always burdened.
+
+It was in the afternoon that we drifted to a little grove of young
+pines, the one bit of pure green against the white and gray and black
+of that landscape.  The sky was of sapphire, with a buzzard or two
+blotted against the blue.
+
+Here with a circle of the trees surrounding us, the children sat down
+with me.  They were not a talkative group, and I was overcome by a
+sense of the impossibility of meeting them on any common ground of
+conversation.  But they seemed to expect something--they were like a
+flock of little hungry birds waiting to be fed--and what do you think I
+gave them?  Guess.  But I know you have it wrong.
+
+I recited "Flos Mercatorum," my Whittington poem!
+
+It was done on an impulse, to find if there was anything in them which
+would respond to such rhyme and rapture of words.
+
+I gave it in my best manner, standing in the center of the circle.  I
+did not expect applause.  But I got more than applause.  I am not going
+to try to describe the look that came into the eyes of the oldest
+boy--the nearest that I can come to it is to say that it was the look
+of a child waked from a deep sleep, and gazing wide-eyed upon a new
+world.
+
+He came straight toward me.  "Where--did you--git--them words?" he
+asked in a breathless sort of way.
+
+"A man wrote them--a man named Noyes."
+
+"Are they true?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Say them again."
+
+It was not a request.  It was a command.  And I did say them, and saw a
+soul's awakening.
+
+Oh, there are people who won't believe that it can be done like
+that--in a moment.  But that boy was ready.  He had dreamed and until
+now no one had ever put the dreams into words for him.  He cannot read,
+has probably never heard a fairy tale--the lore of this region is
+gruesome and ghostly, rather than lovely and poetic.
+
+Perhaps, 'way back, five, six generations, some ancestor of this lad
+may have drifted into London town, perhaps the bells sang to him, and
+subconsciously this sand-hill child was illumined by that inherited
+memory.  Somewhere in the back of his mind bells have been chiming, and
+he has not known enough to call them bells.  However that may be, my
+verses revealed to him a new heaven and a new earth.
+
+Without knowing anything, he is ready for everything.  Perhaps there
+are others like him.  Cousin Patty says there are girls.  She insists
+that the girls need cook-books, not poetry, but I am not sure.
+
+I shall go again to the pines, and teach that boy first by telling him
+things, then I shall take books.  I haven't been as interested in
+anything for years as I am in that boy.
+
+So, will you think of me as seeing, faintly, the Vision?  Your eyes are
+clearer than mine.  You can see farther; and what you see, will you
+tell me?
+
+And now about Barry.  I know how hard it is to have him leave you, and
+that under all your talk of trumpets blowing and flags flying, there's
+the ache and the heart-break.  I cannot see why such things should come
+to you.  The rest of us probably deserve what we get.  But you--I
+should like to think of you always as in a garden--you have the power
+to make things bloom.  You have even quickened the dry dust of my own
+dead life, so that now in it there's a little plot of the pansies of my
+thoughts of you, and there's rosemary, for remembrance, and there's the
+little bed of my interest in that boy--what seeds did you plant for it?
+
+It is raining here to-night.  I wonder it the rain is beating on the
+windows of the Tower Rooms, and if you are snug within, with Pittiwitz
+purring and the fire snapping, and I wonder if throughout all that rain
+you are sending any thought to me.
+
+Perhaps I shouldn't ask it.  But I do ask for another letter.  What the
+last was to me I have told you.  I shall live on the hope of the next.
+
+Faithfully and gratefully always,
+
+ROGER POOLE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+_In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which
+a March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon._
+
+
+The news that Barry must go away had been a blow to Leila's childish
+dreams of immediate happiness.  She knew that Barry was bitter, that he
+rebelled against the plans which were being made for him, but she did
+not know that Gordon had told the General frankly and flatly the reason
+for this delay in the matrimonial arrangements.
+
+The General, true to his ancient code, had protested that "a man could
+drink like a gentleman," that Barry's good blood would tell.  "His wild
+oats aren't very wild--and every boy must have his fling."
+
+Gordon had listened impatiently, as to an ancient and outworn
+philosophy.  "The business world doesn't take into account the wild
+oats of a man, General," he had said.  "The new game isn't like the old
+one,--the convivial spirit is not the popular one among men of affairs.
+And that isn't the worst of it, with Barry's temperament there's danger
+of a breakdown, moral and physical.  If it were not for that, he could
+come into your office and practice law, as you suggest.  But he's got
+to get away from Washington.  He's got to get away from old
+associations, and you'll pardon me for saying it, he's got to get away
+from Leila.  She loves him, and is sorry for him, even though we've
+kept from her the knowledge of his fault.  She thinks we are all
+against him and her sympathy weakens him.  It was the same with her
+mother, Constance tells me.  She wouldn't believe that her boy could be
+anything but perfect, and John Ballard wasn't strong enough to
+counteract her influence.  Mary was the only one, and now that it has
+come to an actual crisis, even Mary blames me for trying to do what I
+know is best for Barry.  I want to take him over to the other side, cut
+him away from all that hampers him here, and bring him back to you
+stronger in fiber and more of a man."
+
+The General shook his head.  "Perhaps," he said, "but I can't bear to
+think of the hurt heart of my little Leila."
+
+"They should never have been engaged," Gordon said, "but it won't make
+matters any better to let things go on.  If Leila doesn't marry Barry,
+she won't have to bear the burdens he will surely bring to her.  She'd
+better be unhappy with you to take care of her, than tied to him and
+unhappy."
+
+"But I'm an old man, and she is such a child.  Life for me is so short,
+and for her so long."
+
+"We must do what seems best for the moment, and let the future take
+care of itself.  Barry's only a boy.  They are neither of them ready
+for marriage--a few years of waiting won't hurt them."
+
+It was in this strain that Gordon talked to Barry.
+
+"It won't hurt you to wait."
+
+"Wait for what?" Barry flamed; "until Leila wears her heart out?  Until
+you teach her that I'm not--fit?  Until somebody else comes along and
+steals her, while I'm gone?"
+
+"Is that the opinion you have of her constancy?"
+
+"No," Barry said, huskily, "she's as true as steel.  But I can't see
+the use of this, Gordon.  If I marry Leila, she'll make a man of me."
+
+"She hasn't changed you during these last months," Gordon stated,
+inexorably, "and you mustn't run the risk of making her unhappy.  It is
+a mere business proposition that I am putting before you, Barry.  You
+must be able to support a wife before you marry one, and Washington
+isn't the place for you to start.  In a business like ours, a man must
+be at his best.  You are wasting your time here, and you've acquired
+the habit of sociability, which is just a habit, but it grows and will
+end by paralyzing your forces.  A man who's always ready to be with the
+crowd isn't the man that's ready for work, and he isn't the man who's
+usually onto his job.  I am putting this not from any moral or
+spiritual ideal, but from the commercial.  The man who wins out isn't
+the one with his brain fuddled; he's the one with his brain clear.
+Business to-day is too keen a game for any one to play who isn't
+willing to be at it all the time."
+
+Thus practical common sense met the boy at every turn.  And he was
+forced at last for pride's sake to consent to Gordon's plans for him.
+But he had gone to Mary, raging.  "Is he going to run our lives?"
+
+"He is doing it for your good, Barry."
+
+"Why can't I go South with Roger Poole?--if I must go away?  He told me
+of a man who stayed in the woods with him."
+
+"That would simply be temporary, and it would delay matters.  Gordon's
+idea is that in this way you'll be established in business.  If you
+went South you'd be without any remunerative occupation."
+
+"Doesn't Poole make a living down there?"
+
+"He hasn't yet.  He's to try story-writing."
+
+"Are you corresponding with him, Mary?"
+
+Resenting his catechism, she forced herself to say, quietly, "We write
+now and then."
+
+"What does Porter think of that?"
+
+"Porter hasn't anything to do with it."
+
+"He has, too.  You know you'll marry him, Mary."
+
+"I shall not.  I haven't the least idea of marrying Porter."
+
+"Then why do you let him hang around you?"
+
+"Barry," she was blazing, "I don't let him hang around.  He comes as he
+has always come--to see us all."
+
+"Do you think for a moment that he'd come if it weren't for you?  He
+isn't craving my society, or Aunt Isabelle's, or Susan Jenks'."
+
+Barry was glad to blame somebody else for something--he was aware of
+himself as the blackest sheep in the fold, but let those who had other
+sins hear them.
+
+He flung himself away from her--out of the house.  And for days he did
+not come home.  They kept the reason of his absence from Leila, and as
+far as they could from Constance.  But Mary went nearly wild with
+anxiety, and she found in Gordon a strength and a resourcefulness on
+which she leaned.
+
+When Barry came back, he offered no further objections to their plans.
+Yet they could see that he was consenting to his exile only because he
+had no argument with which to meet theirs.  He refused to resign from
+the Patent Office until the last moment, as if hoping for some reprieve
+from the sentence which his family had pronounced.  He was moody,
+irritable, a changed boy from the one who had hippity-hopped with Leila
+on Constance's wedding night.
+
+Even Leila saw the change.  "Barry, dear," she said one evening as she
+sat beside him in her father's library, "Barry--is it because you hate
+to leave--me?"
+
+He turned to her almost fiercely.  "If I had a penny of my own, Leila,
+I'd pick you up, and we'd go to the ends of the earth together."
+
+And she responded breathlessly, "It would be heavenly, Barry."
+
+He dallied with temptation.  "If we were married, no one could take you
+away from me."
+
+"No one will ever take me away."
+
+"I know.  But they might try to make you give me up."
+
+"Why should they?"
+
+"They'll say that I'm not worthy--that I'm a poor idiot who can't earn
+a living for his wife."
+
+"Oh, Barry," she whispered, "how can any one say such things?"  She
+knelt on a little stool beside him, and her brown hair curled madly
+about her pink cheeks.  "Oh, Barry," she said again, "why not--why not
+get married now, and show them that we can live on what you make, and
+then you needn't go--away."
+
+He caught at that hope.  "But, sweetheart, you'd be--poor."
+
+"I'd have you."
+
+"I couldn't take you to our old house.  It--belongs to Mary.  Father
+knew that Constance was to be married, so he tried to provide for Mary
+until she married; after that the property will be divided between the
+two girls.  He felt that I was a man, and he spent what money he had
+for me on my education."
+
+"I don't want to live in Mary's house.  We could live with Dad."
+
+"No," sharply.  Barry had been hurt when the General had seemed to
+agree so entirely with Gordon.  He had expected the offer of a place in
+the General's office, and it had not come.
+
+"If we marry, darling," he said, "we must go it alone.  I won't be
+dependent on any one."
+
+"We could have a little apartment," her eyes were shining, "and Dad
+would furnish it for us, and Susan Jenks could teach me to cook and she
+could tell me your favorite things, and we'd have them, and it would be
+like a story book.  Barry, please."
+
+He, too, thought it would be like a story book.  Other people had done
+such things and had been happy.  And once at the head of his own
+household he would show them that he was a man.
+
+Yet he tried to put her away from him.  "I must not.  It wouldn't be
+right."
+
+But as the days went on, and the time before his departure grew short,
+he began to ask himself, "Why not?"
+
+And it was thus, with Romance in the lead, with Love urging them on,
+and with Ignorance and Innocence and Impetuosity hand in hand, that, at
+last, in the madness of a certain March moon, Leila and Barry ran away.
+
+Leila had a friend in Rockville--an old school friend whom she often
+visited.  Barry knew Montgomery County from end to end.  He had fished
+and hunted in its streams, he had motored over its roads, he had danced
+and dined at its country houses, he had golfed at its country clubs, he
+had slept at its inns and worshiped in its churches.
+
+So it was to Montgomery County and its county seat that they looked for
+their Gretna Green, and one night Leila kissed her father wistfully,
+and told him that she was going to see Elizabeth Dean.
+
+"Just for Saturday, Dad.  I'll go Friday night, and come back in time
+for dinner Saturday."
+
+"Why not motor out?"
+
+"The train will be easier.  And I'll telephone you when I get there."
+
+She took chances on the telephoning--for had he called her up, he would
+have found that she did not reach Rockville on Friday night, nor was
+she expected by Elizabeth Dean until Saturday in time for lunch.
+
+There was thus an evening and a night and the morning of the next day
+in which Little-Lovely Leila was to be lost to the world.
+
+She took the train for Rockville, but stopped at a station half-way
+between that town and Washington, and there Barry met her.  They had
+dinner at the little station restaurant--a wonderful dinner of ham and
+eggs and boiled potatoes, but the wonderfulness had nothing to do with
+the food; it had to do rather with Little-Lovely Leila's shining eyes
+and blushes, and Barry's abounding spirits.  He was like a boy out of
+school.  He teased Leila and wrote poetry on the fly-specked dinner
+card, reading it out loud to her, reveling in her lovely confusion.
+
+When they finished, Leila telephoned to her father that she had arrived
+at Rockville and was safe.  If her voice wavered a little as she said
+it, if her eyes filled at the trustfulness of his affectionate
+response, these things were soon forgotten, as Barry caught up her
+little bag, and they left the station, and started over the hills in
+search of happiness.
+
+The way was rather long, but they had thought it best to avoid trolley
+or train or much-traveled roads, lest they be recognized.  And so it
+came about that they crossed fields, and slipped through the edges of
+groves, and when the twilight fell Little-Lovely Leila danced along the
+way, and Barry danced, too, until the moon came up round and gold above
+the blackness of the distant hills.
+
+Once they came to a stream that was like silver, and once they passed
+through a ghostly orchard with budding branches, and once they came to
+a farmhouse where a dog barked at them, and the dog and the orchard and
+the budding trees and the stream all seemed to be saying:
+
+"_You are running away---you are running away._"
+
+And now they had walked a mile, and there was yet another.
+
+"But what's a mile?" said Barry, and Little-Lovely Leila laughed.
+
+She wore a frock of pale yellow, with a thick warm coat of the same
+fashionable color.  Her hat was demurely tied under her little chin
+with black velvet ribbons.  She was like a primrose of the spring--and
+Barry kissed her.
+
+"May I tell Dad, when I get home to-morrow night?" she asked.
+
+"We'll wait until Sunday.  April Fool's Day, Leila.  We'll tell him,
+and he will think it's a joke.  And when he sees how happy we are, he
+will know we were right."
+
+So like children they refused to let the thought of the future mar the
+joy of the present.
+
+Once they rested on a fallen log in a little grove of trees.  The wind
+had died down, and the air was warm, with the still warmth of a
+Southern spring.  Between the trees they could see a ribbon of white
+road which wound up to a shadowy church.
+
+"The minister's house is next to the church," Barry told her; "in a
+half hour from now you'll be mine, Leila.  And no one can take you away
+from me."
+
+In the wonder of that thought they were silent for a time, then:
+
+"How strange it will seem to be married, Barry."
+
+"It seems the most natural thing in the world to me.  But there will be
+those who will say I shouldn't have let you."
+
+"I let myself.  It wasn't you.  Did you want my heart to break at your
+going, Barry?"
+
+For a moment he held her in his arms, then he kissed her, gently, and
+let her go.  When they came back this way, she would be his wife.
+
+The old minister asked few questions.  He believed in youth and love;
+the laws of the state were lenient.  So with the members of his family
+for witnesses, he declared in due time that this man and woman were
+one, and again they went forth into the moonlight.
+
+And now there was another little journey, up one hill and down another
+to a quaint hostelry--almost empty of guests in this early season.
+
+A competent little landlady and an old colored man led them to the
+suite for which Barry had telephoned.  The little landlady smiled at
+Leila and showed the white roses which Barry had sent for her room, and
+the old colored man lighted all the candles.
+
+There was a supper set out on the table in their sitting-room, with
+cold roast chicken and hot biscuits, a bottle of light wine, and a
+round cake with white frosting.
+
+Leila cut the cake.  "To think that I should have a wedding cake," she
+said to Barry.
+
+So they made a feast of it, but Barry did not open the bottle of wine
+until their supper was ended.  Then he poured two glasses.
+
+"To you," he whispered, and smiled at his bride.
+
+Then before his lips could touch it, he set the glass down hastily, so
+that it struck against the bottle and broke, and the wine stained the
+white cloth.
+
+Leila looking up, startled, met a strange look.  "Barry," she
+whispered, "Barry, dear boy."
+
+He rose and blew out the candles.
+
+"Let me tell you--in the dark," he said.  "You've got to know, Leila."
+
+And in the moonlight he told her why they had wanted him to go away.
+
+"It is because I've got to fight--devils."
+
+At first she did not understand.  But he made her understand.
+
+She was such a little thing in her yellow gown.  So little and young to
+deal with a thing like this.
+
+But in that moment the child became a woman.  She bent over him.
+
+"My husband," she said, "nothing can ever part us now, Barry."
+
+So love taught her what to say, and so she comforted him.
+
+
+The next morning Elizabeth Dean met Leila Dick at the station.  That
+she was really meeting Leila Ballard was a thing, of course, of which
+she had no knowledge.  But Leila was acutely conscious of her new
+estate.  It seemed to her that the motor horn brayed it, that the birds
+sang it, that the cows mooed it, that the dogs barked it, "_Leila
+Ballard, Leila Ballard, Leila Ballard, wife of Barry--you're not Leila
+Dick, you're not, you're not, you're not._"
+
+"I never knew you to be so quiet," Elizabeth said at last, curiously.
+"What's the matter?"
+
+Leila brought herself back with an effort.  "I like to listen," she
+said, "but I am usually such a chatterbox that people won't believe it."
+
+Somehow she managed to get through that day.  Somehow she managed to
+greet and meet the people who had been invited to the luncheon which
+was given in her honor.  But while in body she was with them, in spirit
+she was with Barry.  Barry was her husband--her husband who loved her
+and needed her in his life.
+
+His confession of the night before had brought with it no deadening
+sense of hopelessness.  To her, any future with Barry was rose-colored.
+
+But it had changed her attitude toward him in this, that she no longer
+adored him as a strong young god who could stand alone, and whom she
+must worship because of his condescension in casting his eyes upon her.
+
+He needed her!  He needed little Leila Dick!  And the thought gave to
+her marriage a deeper meaning than that of mere youthful raptures.
+
+He had put her on the train that morning reluctantly, and had promised
+to call her up the moment she reached town.
+
+So her journey toward Washington on the evening train was an hour of
+anticipation.  To those who rode with her, she seemed a very pretty and
+self-contained young person making a perfectly proper and commonplace
+trip on the five o'clock express--in her own mind, she was set apart
+from all the rest by the fact of her transcendant romance.
+
+Her father met her at the station and put her into a taxi.  All the way
+home she sat with her hand in his.
+
+"Did you have a good time?" he asked.
+
+"Heavenly, Dad."
+
+They ate dinner together, and she talked of her day, wishing that there
+was nothing to keep from him, wishing that she might whisper it to him
+now.  She had no fear of his disapproval.  Dad loved her.
+
+No call had come from Barry.  She finished dinner and wandered
+restlessly from room to room.
+
+When nine o'clock struck, she crept into the General's library, and
+found him in his big chair reading and smoking.
+
+She sat on a little stool beside him, and laid her head against his
+knee.  Presently his hand slipped from his book and touched her curls.
+And then both sat looking into the fire.
+
+"If your mother had lived, my darling," the old man said, "she would
+have made things easier for you."
+
+"About Barry's going away?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"It seems silly for him to go, Dad.  Surely there's something here for
+him to do."
+
+"Gordon thinks that the trip will bring out his manhood, make him less
+of a boy."
+
+"I don't think Gordon understands Barry."
+
+"And you do, baby?  I'm afraid you spoil him."
+
+"Nobody could spoil Barry."
+
+"Don't love him too much."
+
+"As if I could."
+
+"I'm not sure," the old man said, shrewdly, "that you don't.  And no
+man's worth it.  Most of us are selfish pigs--we take all we can
+get--and what we give is usually less than we ask in return."
+
+But now she was smiling into the fire.  "You gave mother all that you
+had to give, Dad, and you made her happy."
+
+"Yes, thank God," and now there were tears on the old cheeks; "for the
+short time that I had her--I made her happy."
+
+When Barry came, he found her curled up in her father's arms.  Over her
+head the General smiled at this boy who was some day to take her from
+him.
+
+But Barry did not smile.  He greeted the General, and when Leila came
+to him, tremulously self-conscious, he did not meet her eyes, but he
+took her hand in his tightly, while he spoke to her father.
+
+"You won't mind, General, if I carry Leila off to the other room.  I've
+a lot of things to say to her."
+
+"Of course not.  I was in love once myself, Barry."
+
+They went into the other room.  It was a long and formal parlor with
+crystal chandeliers and rose-colored stuffed furniture and gilt-framed
+mirrors.  It had been furnished by the General's mother, and his little
+wife had loved it and had kept it unchanged.
+
+It was dimly lighted now, and Leila in her white dinner gown and Barry
+tall and slender in his evening black were reflected by the long
+mirrors mistily.
+
+Barry took her in his arms, and kissed her.  "My wife, my wife," he
+said, again and again, "my wife."
+
+At first she yielded gladly, meeting his rapture with her own.  But
+presently she became aware of a wildness in his manner, a broken note
+in his whispers.
+
+So she released herself, and stood back a little from him, and asked,
+breathing quickly, "Barry, what has happened?"
+
+"Everything.  Since I left you this morning I've lost my place.  I
+found the envelope on my desk this morning--telling of my discharge.
+They said that I'd been too often away without sufficient excuse, and
+so they have dropped me from the rolls.  And you see that what Gordon
+said was true.  I can't earn a living for a wife.  Now that I have you,
+I can't take care of you--it is not much of a fellow that you've
+married, Leila."
+
+Oh, the little white face with the shining eyes!
+
+Then out of the stillness came her cry, like a bird's note, triumphant.
+"But I'm your wife now, and nothing can part us, Barry."
+
+He caught up her hands in his.  "Dearest, dearest--don't you see that I
+can't ever tell them of our marriage until I can show them----"
+
+"Show them what, Barry?"
+
+"That I can take care of you."
+
+"Do you mean that I mustn't even tell Dad, Barry?"
+
+"You mustn't tell any one, not until I come back."
+
+Every drop of blood was drained from her face.
+
+"Until you come back.  Are you going--away?"
+
+"I promised Gordon to-day that I would."
+
+She swayed a little, and he caught her.  "I had to promise, Leila.
+Don't you see?  I haven't a penny, and I can't confess to them that
+I've married you.  I wanted to tell him that you were mine--that all
+your sweetness and dearness belonged to me.  I wanted to shout it to
+the world.  But I haven't a penny, and I'm proud, and I won't let
+Gordon think I've been a--fool."
+
+"But Dad would help us."
+
+"Do you think I'd beg him to give me what he hasn't offered, Leila?
+I've got to show them that I'm not a boy."
+
+She struggled to bring herself out of the strange numbness which
+gripped her.  "If I could only tell Dad."
+
+"Surely it can be our own sweet secret, dearest."
+
+She laid her cheek against his arm, in a dumb gesture of surrender, and
+her little bare left hand crept up and rested like a white rose petal
+against the blackness of his coat.
+
+He laid his own upon it.  "Poor little hand without a wedding ring," he
+said.
+
+And now the numbness seemed to engulf her, to break----
+
+"Hush, Leila, dear one."
+
+But she could not hush.  That very morning they had slipped the wedding
+ring over a length of narrow blue ribbon, and Barry had tied it about
+her neck.  To-morrow, he had promised, she should wear it for all the
+world to see.
+
+But she was not to wear it.  It must be hidden, as she had hidden it
+all day above her heart.
+
+"Leila, you are making it hard for me."
+
+It was the man's cry of selfishness, but hearing it, she put her own
+trouble aside.  He needed her, and her king could do no wrong.
+
+So she set herself to comfort him.  In the month that was left to them
+they would make the most of their happiness.  Then perhaps she could
+get Dad to bring her over in the summer, and he should show her London,
+and all the lovely places, and there would be the letters; she would
+write everything--and he must write.
+
+"You little saint," he said when he left her, "you're too good for me,
+but all that's best in me belongs to you--my precious."
+
+She went to the door with him and said "good-night" bravely.
+
+Then she shut the door and shivered.  When at last she made her way
+through the hall to the library, she seemed to be pushing against some
+barrier, so that her way was slow.
+
+On the threshold of that room she stopped.
+
+"Dad," she said, sharply.
+
+"My darling."
+
+He sprang to his feet just in time and caught her.
+
+She lay against his heart white and still.  The strain of the last two
+days had been too great for her, and Little-Lovely Leila had fainted
+dead away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+_In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary._
+
+
+The christening of Constance's baby brought together a group of
+feminine personalities, which, to one possessed with imagination, might
+have stood for the evil and beneficent fairies of the old story books.
+
+The little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson, in spite of the dignity
+of her hyphenated name, was a wee morsel.  Swathed in fine linen, she
+showed to the unprejudiced eye no signs of great beauty.  With a
+wrinkly-red skin, a funny round nose, a toothless mouth--she was like
+every other normal baby of her age, but to her family and friends she
+was a rare and unmatched object.
+
+Even Aunt Frances succumbed to her charms.  "I must say," she remarked
+to Delilah Jeliffe, as they bent over the bassinet, "that she is
+remarkable for her age."
+
+Delilah shrugged.  "I'm not fond of them.  They're so red and squirmy."
+
+Leila protested hotly.  "Delilah, she's lovely--such little perfect
+hands."
+
+"Bird's claws!"
+
+Mary took up the chant.  "Her skin's like a rose leaf."
+
+And Grace: "Her hair is going to be gold, like her mother's."
+
+"Hair?"  Delilah's tone was incredulous.  "She hasn't any."
+
+Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back.  "What do
+you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.
+
+Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery
+duck's-tail curl--bright as a sunbeam.
+
+"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.
+
+Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter.  "That isn't hair," she
+said; "it is just a sample of yellow silk."
+
+Porter, coming up, was treated to a repetition of this remark.
+
+"Let us thank the Gods that it isn't red," was his fervent response.
+
+Grace's hands went up to her own lovely hair.
+
+"Oh," she reproached him.
+
+Porter apologized.  "I was thinking of my carroty head.  Yours is
+glorious."
+
+"Artists paint it," Grace agreed pensively, "and it goes well with the
+right kind of clothes."
+
+Delilah looked from one to the other.
+
+"You two would make a beautiful pair of saints on a stained glass
+window," she said reflectively, "with a spike of lilies and halos back
+of your heads."
+
+"Most women are ready for halos," Porter said, "and wings, but I can't
+see myself balancing a spike of lilies."
+
+"Nor I," Grace rippled; "you'd better make it hollyhocks, Delilah--do
+you know the old rhyme
+
+  "'A beau never goes
+  Where the hollyhock blows'?"
+
+
+"You've never lacked men in your life," Delilah told her, shrewdly,
+"but with that hair you won't be one of the comfortable married
+kind--it will be either a _grande passion_ or a career for you.  If you
+don't find your Romeo, you'll be Mother Superior in a convent, the head
+of a deaconess home, or a nurse on a battle-field."
+
+Grace's eyes sparkled.  "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very
+far away from my dreams.  Where did you get your wisdom?"
+
+"I'm learning things from Colin Quale.  We study types together.  It's
+great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."
+
+Colin Quale was Delilah's artist.  "Why didn't you bring him?"
+Constance asked.
+
+"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had
+something for him to do.  He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear
+at the White House garden party.  It will keep him busy for the
+afternoon."
+
+"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't
+believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."
+
+"I don't, duckie.  To me--you are a sort of family art gallery.  I hang
+you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."
+
+Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old
+vivacity.
+
+"The baby belongs to the Dutch school--with that nose."
+
+There was a chorus of protest.
+
+"She looks like you," Delilah told him.  "Except for her nose, she's a
+Ballard.  There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful
+disposition."
+
+She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon.  He stiffened.  Such women
+as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of
+femininity, but he doubted it.
+
+"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance
+whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."
+
+"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take
+Barry," Delilah reproached him.
+
+Leila dropped the baby's hand.
+
+"Yes," Gordon discussed the subject with evident reluctance, "he's
+going over with me, to learn the business--he may never have a better
+opportunity."
+
+The light went out of Barry's eyes.  He left the little group, wandered
+to the window, and stood looking out.
+
+"Mary will go next," Delilah prophesied.  "With Constance and Barry on
+the other side, she won't be able to keep away."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "What would Aunt Isabelle and Susan Jenks and
+Pittiwitz do without me?"
+
+"What would I do without you?" Porter demanded, boldly.  "Don't put
+such ideas in her head, Delilah; she's remote enough as it is."
+
+But Mary was not listening.  Barry had slipped from the room, and
+presently she followed him.  Leila had seen him go, and had looked
+after him longingly, but of late she had seemed timid in her public
+demonstrations; it was as if she felt when she was under the eye of
+others that by some sign or look she might betray her secret.
+
+Mary found Barry down-stairs in the little office, his head in his
+hands.
+
+"Dear boy," she said, and touched his bright hair with hesitating
+fingers.
+
+He reached up and caught her hand.
+
+"Mary," he said, brokenly, "what's the use?  I began wrong--and I guess
+I'll go on wrong to the end."
+
+And now she spoke with earnestness, both hands on his shoulders.
+
+"Oh, Barry, boy--if you fight, fight with all your weapons.  And don't
+let the wrong thoughts go on molding you into the wrong thing.  If you
+think you are going to fail, you'll fail.  But if you think of yourself
+as conquering, triumphant--if you think of yourself as coming back to
+Leila, victorious, why you'll come that way; you'll come strong and
+radiant, a man among men, Barry."
+
+It was this convincing optimism of Mary Ballard's which brought to
+weaker natures a sense of actual achievement.  To hear Mary say, "You
+can do it," was to believe in one's own powers.  For the first time in
+his life Barry felt it.  Hitherto, Mary had seemed rather worrying when
+it came to rules of conduct--rather unreasonable in her demands upon
+him.  But now he was caught up on the wings of her belief in him.
+
+"Do you think I can?" a light had leaped into his tired eyes.
+
+"I know you can, dear boy," she bent and kissed him.
+
+"You'll take care of Leila," he begged, and then, very low, "I'm afraid
+I've made an awful mess of things, Mary."
+
+"You mustn't think of that--just think, Barry--of the day when you come
+back!  How all the wedding bells will ring!"
+
+But he thought of a wedding where there had been no bells.  He thought
+of Little-Lovely Leila, in her yellow gown on the night of the mad
+March moon.
+
+"You'll take care of her," he said again, and Mary promised.
+
+And now the Bishop arrived, and certain old friends of the family.  As
+Barry and Mary made their way up-stairs, they met Susan with the mail.
+There was one long letter for Mary, which she tore open with eagerness,
+glanced at it, and tucked it into her girdle, then went on with winged
+feet.
+
+Porter, glancing at her as she came in, was struck by the radiance of
+her aspect.  How lovely she was with that flush on her cheek, and with
+her sweet shining eyes!
+
+With due formality and with the proper number of godfathers and
+godmothers, little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson was officially
+named.
+
+During the ceremony, Leila sat by her father's side, her hand in his.
+In these days the child clung to the strong old soldier.  When she had
+come back to consciousness on the night that she had fainted on the
+threshold of the library, he had asked, "My darling, what is it?"
+
+And she had cried, "Oh, Dad, Dad," and had wept in his arms.  But she
+had not told him that she was Barry's wife.  It was because of Barry's
+going, she had admitted; it seemed as if her heart would break.
+
+The General talked the situation over with Mary.  "How will she stand
+it, when he is really gone?"
+
+"It will be better when the parting is over, and she settles down to
+other things."
+
+Yet that day, after the christening, Mary wondered if what she had said
+was true.  What would life hold for Leila when Barry was gone?
+
+Her own life without Roger Poole was blank.  Reluctantly, she was
+forced to admit it.  Constance, the baby, Porter, these were the
+shadows, Roger was the substance.
+
+The letters which had passed between them had shown her depths in him
+which had hitherto been unrevealed.  Comparing him with Porter Bigelow,
+she realized that Porter could never say the things which Roger said;
+he could not think them.
+
+And while in the eyes of the world Roger was a defeated man, and Porter
+a successful one, yet there was this to think of, that Porter's
+qualities were negative rather than positive.  With all of his
+opportunities, he was narrowing his life to the pursuit of pleasure and
+his love for her.  Roger had shirked responsibility toward his fellow
+man by withdrawal; Porter was shirking by indifference.
+
+So she found herself, as many another woman has found herself, fighting
+the battle of the less fortunate.  Roger wanted her, yet pressed no
+claim.  Porter wanted her and meant to have her.
+
+He had shown of late his impatience at the restraint which she had put
+upon him.  He had encroached more and more upon her time--demanded more
+and more.  He had been kept from saying the things which she did not
+want him to say only by the fact that she would not listen.
+
+She knew that he was expecting things which could never be--and that by
+her silence she was giving sanction to his expectations.  Yet she found
+herself dreading to say the final word which would send him from her.
+
+The friendship between a man and a woman has this poignant quality--it
+has no assurance of permanence.  For, if either marries, the other must
+suffer loss; if either loves, the other must put away that which may
+have become a prized association.  As her friend, Mary valued Porter
+highly.  She had known him all her life.  Yet she was aware that she
+was taking all and returning nothing; and surely Porter had the right
+to ask of life something more than that.
+
+She sighed, and going to her desk, took out of it the letter which she
+had received in the morning mail.
+
+She knew that the moment that she announced the contents of that letter
+would be a dramatic one.  Even if she did it quietly, it would have the
+effect of a bomb thrown into the midst of a peaceful circle.  She had a
+fancy that it would be best to tell Porter first.  He was to come back
+to dinner, so she dressed and went down early.
+
+He found her in the garden.  There were double rows of hyacinths in the
+paths now, with tulips coming up between, and beyond the fountain was
+an amethyst sky where the young moon showed.
+
+She rose to greet him, her hands full of fragrant blossoms.
+
+He held her hand tightly.  "How happy you look, Mary."
+
+"I am happy."
+
+"Because I'm here?  If you could only say that once truthfully."
+
+"It is always good to have you,"
+
+"But you won't tell a lie, and say you're happier, because of my
+coming?  Oh, Contrary Mary!"
+
+She shook her head.  "If I said nice things to you, you'd
+misunderstand."
+
+"Perhaps.  But why this radiance?"
+
+"Good news."
+
+"From whom?"
+
+"A man."
+
+"What man?" with rising jealousy.
+
+"One who has given me the thing I want."
+
+He was plainly puzzled.
+
+"I don't know what you mean."
+
+"A letter came this morning--a lovely letter in a long envelope."
+
+She took a paper out of a magazine which lay on the stone bench by her
+side.  "Read that," she said.
+
+He read and his face went perfectly white, so that it showed chalkily
+beneath his red hair.
+
+"Mary," he said, "what have you done this for?  You know I'm not going
+to let you."
+
+"You haven't anything to do with it."
+
+"But I have.  It is ridiculous.  You don't know what you are doing.
+You've never been tied to an office desk--you've never fought and
+struggled with the world."
+
+[Illustration: "You don't know what you are doing."]
+
+"Neither have you, Porter."
+
+"Well, if I haven't, is it my fault?" he demanded, "I was born into the
+world with this millstone of money around my neck, and a red head.  Dad
+sent me to school and to college, and he set me up in business.  There
+wasn't anything left for me to do but to keep straight, and I've done
+that for you."
+
+"I know," she was very sweet as she leaned toward him, "but, Porter,
+sometimes, lately, I've wondered if that's all that is expected of us."
+
+"All?  What do you mean?"
+
+"Aren't we expected to do something for others?"
+
+"What others?"
+
+She wanted to tell him about Roger Poole and the boy in the pines.  Her
+eyes glowed.  But her lips were silent.
+
+"What others, Mary?"
+
+"The people who aren't as fortunate as we are."
+
+"What people?"
+
+Mary was somewhat vague.  "The people who need us--to help."
+
+"Marry me, and you can be Lady Bountiful--dispensing charity."
+
+"It isn't exactly charity."  She had again the vision of Roger Poole
+and the boy.  "People don't just want our money--they want us
+to--understand."
+
+He was not following her.  "To think that you should want to go out in
+the world--to work.  Tell me why you are doing it."
+
+"Because I need an outlet for my energies--the girl of limited income
+in these days is as ineffective as a jellyfish, if she hasn't some
+occupation."
+
+"You could never be a jellyfish.  Mary, listen, listen.  I need you,
+dear.  I've kept still for a year--Mary!"
+
+"Porter, I can't."
+
+And now he asked a question which had smouldered long in his breast.
+
+"Is there any one else?"
+
+Was there?  Her thoughts leaped at once to Roger.  What did he mean to
+her?  What could he ever mean?  He had said himself that he could
+expect nothing.  Perhaps he had meant that she must expect nothing.
+
+"Mary, is it--Roger Poole?"
+
+Her eyes came up to meet his; they were like stars.  "Porter, I
+don't--know."
+
+He took the blow in silence.  The shadows were on them now.  In all the
+beauty of the May twilight, the little bronze boy grinned at love and
+at life.
+
+"Has he asked you, Mary?"
+
+"No.  I'm not sure that he wants to marry me--I'm not sure that I want
+to marry him--I only know that he is different."  It was like Mary to
+put it thus, frankly.
+
+"No man could know you without wanting to marry you.  But what has he
+to offer you--oh, it is preposterous."
+
+She faced him, flaming.  "It isn't preposterous, Porter.  What has any
+man to offer any woman except his love?  Oh, I know you men--you think
+because you have money--but if--if--both of you loved me--you'd stand
+before me on your merits as men--there would be nothing else in it for
+me but that."
+
+"I know.  And I'm willing to stand on my merits."  The temper which
+belonged to Porter's red head was asserting itself.  "I'm willing to
+stand on my merits.  I offer you a past which is clean--a future of
+devotion.  It's worth something, Mary--in the years to come when you
+know more of men, you'll understand that it is worth something."
+
+"I know," she said, her hand on his, "it is worth a great deal.  But I
+don't want to marry anybody."  It was the old cry reiterated.  "I want
+to live the life I have planned for a little while--then if Love claims
+me, it must be _love_--not just a comfortable getting a home for myself
+along the lines of least resistance.  I want to work and earn, and know
+that I can do it.  If I were to marry you, it would be just because I
+couldn't see any other way out of my difficulties, and you wouldn't
+want me that way, Porter."
+
+He did want her.  But he recognized the futility of wanting her.  For a
+little while, at least, he must let her have her way.  Indeed, she
+would have it, whether he let her or not.  But Roger Poole should not
+have her.  He should not.  All that was primitive in Porter rose to
+combat the claims which she made for his rival.
+
+"I knew there'd be trouble when you let the Tower Rooms," he said
+heavily at last; "a man like that always appeals to a girl's sense of
+romance."
+
+The Tower Rooms!  Mary saw Roger as he had stood in them for the first
+time amid all the confusion of Constance's flight from the home nest.
+That night he had seemed to her merely a person who would pay the
+rent--yet the money which she had received from him had been the
+smallest part.
+
+She drifted away on the tide of her dreams, and Porter felt sharply the
+sense of her utter detachment from him.
+
+"Mary," he said, tensely, "Mary, oh, my little Contrary Mary--you
+aren't going to slip out of my life.  Say that you won't."
+
+"I'm not slipping away from you," she said, "any more than I am
+slipping away from my old self.  I don't understand it, Porter.  I only
+know that what you call contrariness is a force within me which I can't
+control.  I wish that I could do the things which you want me to do, I
+wish I could be what Gordon and Constance and Barry and even Aunt
+Frances want--but there's something which carries me on and on, and
+seems to say, 'There's more than this in the world for you'--and with
+that call in my ears, I have to follow."
+
+He rose, and his head was up.  "All my life, I have wanted just one
+thing which has been denied me--and that one thing is you.  And no
+other man shall take you from me.  I suppose I've got to set myself
+another season of patience.  But I can wait, because in the end I shall
+get what I want--remember that, Mary."
+
+"Don't be too sure, Porter."
+
+"I am so sure," lifting the hand which was weighted with the heavy
+ring, "I am so sure, that I will make a wager with fortune, that the
+day will come when this ring shall be our betrothal ring, I'll give you
+others, Mary, but this shall be the one which shall bind you to me."
+
+She snatched her hand away.  "You speak as if you were--sure," she said.
+
+"I am.  I'm going to let you work and do as you please for a little
+while, if you must.  But in the end I'm going to marry you, Mary."
+
+At dinner Mary announced the contents of her letter in the long
+envelope.  "I have received my appointment as stenographer in the
+Treasury, and I'm to report for duty on the twentieth."
+
+It was Aunt Frances who recovered first from the shock.  "Well, if you
+were my child----"
+
+Grace, with little points of light in her eyes, spoke smoothly, "If
+Mary were your child, she would be as dutiful as I am, mother.  But you
+see she isn't your child."
+
+Aunt Frances snorted--"Dutiful."
+
+Gordon was glowering.  "It is rank foolishness."
+
+Mary flared.  "That's your point of view, Gordon.  You judge me by
+Constance.  But Constance has always been feminine and sweet--and I've
+never been particularly feminine, nor particularly sweet."
+
+Barry followed up her defense.  "I guess Mary knows how to take care of
+herself, Gordon."
+
+"No woman knows how to take care of herself," Gordon was obstinate,
+"when it comes to the fight with economic conditions.  I should hate to
+think of Constance trying to earn a living."
+
+"Gordon, dear," Constance's voice appealed, "I couldn't--but Mary
+can--only I hate to see her do it."
+
+"I don't," said Grace, stoutly.  "I envy her."
+
+Aunt Frances fixed her daughter with a stern eye.  "Don't encourage her
+in her foolishness, Grace," she said; "each of you should marry and
+settle down with some nice man."
+
+"But what man, mother?" Grace, leaning forward, put the question, with
+an irritating air of doubt.
+
+"There are a half dozen of them waiting."
+
+"Nice boys!  But a man.  Find me one, mother, and I'll marry him."
+
+"The trouble with you and Mary," Porter informed her, "is that you
+don't want a man.  You want a hero."
+
+Grace nodded.  "With a helmet and plume, and riding on a steed--that's
+my dream--but mother refuses to let me wander in Arcady where such
+knights are found."
+
+"I think," Constance remarked happily, "that now and then they are
+found in every-day life, only you and Mary won't recognize them."
+
+From the other side her husband smiled at her.  "She thinks I'm one,"
+he said, and his fine young face was suffused by faint color.  "She
+thinks I'm one.  I hope none of you will ever undeceive her."
+
+Under the table Leila's little hand was slipped into Barry's big one.
+She could not proclaim to the world that she had found her knight, and
+loved him.
+
+Aunt Frances, very stiff and straight in her jetted dinner gown,
+resumed, "I wish it were possible to give girls a dose of common sense,
+as you give them cough syrup."
+
+"_Mother!_"
+
+But Aunt Frances, mounted on her grievance, rode it through the salad
+course.  She had wanted Grace to marry--her beauty and her family had
+entitled her to an excellent match.  But Grace was single still,
+holding her own against all her mother's arguments, maintaining in this
+one thing her right to independent action.
+
+Isabelle, straining her ears to hear what it was all about, asked Mary,
+late that night, "What upset Frances at dinner?"
+
+Mary told her.
+
+"Do you think I'm wrong, Aunt Isabelle?" she asked.
+
+The gentle lady sighed, "If you feel that it is right, it must be right
+for you.  But you're trying to be all head, dear child.  And there's
+your heart to reckon with."
+
+Mary flushed "I know.  But I don't want my heart to speak--yet."
+
+Aunt Isabelle patted her hand.  "I think it has--spoken," she said
+softly.
+
+Mary clung to her.  "How did you know?"
+
+"We who have dull ears have often clear eyes--it is one of our
+compensations, Mary."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+_In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For;
+and in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red._
+
+
+It might have been by chance that Delilah Jeliffe driving in her
+electric through a broad avenue on the afternoon following the
+christening of Constance's baby, met Porter Bigelow, and invited him to
+go home with her for a cup of tea.
+
+There were certain things which Delilah wanted of Porter.  Perhaps she
+wanted more than she would ever get.  But to-day she had it in her mind
+to find out if he would go with her to the White House garden party.
+
+Colin Quale was little and blond.  Because of his genius, his presence
+had added distinction to her entrances and exits.  But at the coming
+function, she knew that she needed more than the prestige of
+genius--among the group of distinguished guests who would attend, the
+initial impression would mean much.  Porter's almost stiff stateliness
+would match the gown she was to wear.  His position, socially, was
+impregnable; he had wealth, and youth, and charm.  He would, in other
+words, make a perfectly correct background for the picture which she
+designed to make of herself.
+
+The old house at Georgetown, to which they came finally, was set back
+among certain blossoming shrubs and bushes.  A row of tulips flamed on
+each side of the walk.  Small and formal cedars pointed their spired
+heads toward the spring sky.
+
+In the door, as they ascended the steps, appeared Colin Quale.
+
+"Come in," he said, "come in at once.  I want you to see what I have
+done for you."
+
+He spoke directly to Delilah.  It was doubtful if he saw Porter.  He
+was blind to everything except the fact that his genius had designed
+for Delilah Jeliffe a costume which would make her fame and his.
+
+They followed him through the wide hall to the back porch in which he
+had set up his easel.  There, where a flowering almond bush flung its
+branches against a background of green, he had worked out his idea.
+
+A water-color sketch on the easel showed a girl in white--a girl who
+might have been a queen or an empress.  Her gown partook of the
+prevailing mode, but not slavishly.  There was distinction in it, and
+color here and there, which Colin explained.
+
+"It must be of sheer white, with many flowing flounces, and with faint
+pink underneath like the almond bloom.  And there must be a bit of
+heavenly blue in the hat, and a knot of green at the girdle--and a veil
+flung back--you see?--there'll be sky and field and flowers and a white
+cloud--all the delicate color and bloom----"
+
+Still explaining, he was at last induced to leave the picture, and have
+tea.  While Delilah poured, Porter watched the two, interested and
+diverted by enthusiasms which seemed to him somewhat puerile for a man
+who could do real things in the world of art.
+
+Yet he saw that Delilah took the little man very seriously, that she
+hung on his words of advice, and that she was obedient to his demands
+upon her.
+
+"She'll marry him some day," he said to himself, and Delilah seemed to
+divine his thought, for when at last Colin had rushed back to his
+sketch, she settled herself in her low chair, and told Porter of their
+first meeting.
+
+"I'll begin at the beginning," she said; "it is almost too funny to be
+true, and it could not possibly have happened to any one but me and
+Colin.
+
+"It was last summer when I was on the North Shore.  Father and I stayed
+at a big hotel, but I was crazy to get acquainted with the cottage
+colony.
+
+"But somehow I didn't seem to make good--you see that was in my crude
+days when I wanted to be a cubist picture instead of a daguerreotype.
+I liked to be startling, and thought that to attract attention was to
+attract friends--but I found that I did not attract them.
+
+"One night in August there was a big dance on at one of the hotels, and
+I wanted a gown which should outshine all the others--the ball was to
+be given for the benefit of a local chanty, and all the cottage colony
+would attend.  I sent an order for a gown to my dressmaker, and she
+shipped out a strange and wonderful creation.  It was an imported
+affair--you know the kind--with a bodice of a string of jet and a wisp
+of lace--with a tulle tunic, and a skirt of gold brocade that was so
+tight about my feet that it had the effect of Turkish trousers.  For my
+head she sent a strip of gold gauze which was to be swathed around and
+around my hair in a sort of nun's coif, so that only a little knot
+could show at the back and practically none in front.  It was the last
+cry in fashions.  It made me look like a dream from the Arabian Nights,
+and I liked it."
+
+She laughed, and, in spite of himself, Porter laughed with her.
+
+"I wore it to the dance, and it was there that I met Colin Quale.  I
+wish I could make you see the scene--the great ballroom, and all the
+other women staring at me as I came in--and the men, smiling.
+
+"I was in my element.  I thought, in those days, that the test of charm
+was to hold the eyes of the multitude.  To-day I know that it is to
+hold the eyes of the elect, and it is Colin who has taught me.
+
+"I had danced with a dozen other men when he came up to claim me.  I
+scarcely remembered that I had promised him a dance.  When he was
+presented to me I had only been aware of a pale little man with
+eye-glasses and nervous hands who had stared at me rather too steadily.
+
+"We danced in silence for several minutes and he danced divinely.
+
+"He stopped suddenly.  'Let's get out of here,' he said.  'I want to
+talk to you.'
+
+"I looked at him in amazement.  'But I want to dance.'
+
+"'You can always dance,' he said, quietly, 'but you cannot always talk
+to me.'
+
+"There was nothing in his manner to indicate the preliminaries of a
+flirtation.  He was perfectly serious and he evidently thought that he
+was offering me a privilege.  Curiosity made me follow him, and he led
+the way down the hall to a secluded reception room where there was a
+long mirror, a little table, and a big bunch of old-fashioned roses in
+a bowl.
+
+"On our way we passed a row of chairs, where some one had left a wrap
+and a scarf.  Colin snatched up the scarf--it was a long wide one of
+white chiffon.  The next morning I returned it to him, and he found the
+owner.  I am not sure what explanation he made for his theft, but it
+was undoubtedly attributed to the eccentricities of genius!
+
+"Well, when, as I said, we reached the little room, he pulled a chair
+forward for me, so that I sat directly in front of the mirror.
+
+"I remember that I surveyed myself complacently.  To my deluded eyes,
+my appearance could not be improved.  My head, swathed in its golden
+coif, seemed to give the final perfect touch."
+
+She laughed again at the memory, and Porter found himself immensely
+amused.  She had such a cool way of turning her mental processes inside
+out and holding them up for others to see.
+
+"As I sat there, stealing glances at myself, I became conscious that my
+little blond man was studying me.  Other men had looked at me, but
+never with such a cold, calculating gaze--and when he spoke to me, I
+nearly jumped out of my shoes--his voice was crisp, incisive.
+
+"'Take it off,' he said, and touched the gauze that tied up my head.
+
+"I gasped.  Then I drew myself up in an attempt at haughtiness.  But he
+wasn't impressed a bit.
+
+"'I suppose you know that I am an artist, Miss Jeliffe,' he said, 'and
+from the moment you came into the room, I haven't had a bit of peace.
+You're spoiling your type--and it affects me as a chromo would, or a
+crude crayon portrait, or any other dreadful thing.'
+
+"Do you know how it feels to be called a 'dreadful thing' by a man like
+that?  Well, it simply made me shrivel up and have shivers down my
+spine.
+
+"'But why?' I stammered.
+
+"'Women like you,' he said, 'belong to the stately, the aristocratic
+type.  You can be a _grande dame_ or a duchess--and you are making of
+yourself--what?  A soubrette, with your tango skirt and your strapped
+slippers, and your hideous head-dress--take it off.'
+
+"'But I can't take it off,' I said, almost tearfully; 'my hair
+underneath is--awful.'
+
+"'It doesn't make any difference about your hair underneath--it can't
+be worse than it is,' he roared.  'I want to see your coloring--take it
+off.'
+
+"And I took it off.  My hair was perfectly flat, and as I caught a
+glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to laugh, to shriek.  But
+Colin Quale was as solemn as an owl.  'Ah,' he said, 'I knew you had a
+lot of it!'
+
+"He caught up the scarf which he had borrowed and flung it over my
+shoulders.  He gave a flick of his fingers against my forehead and
+pulled down a few hairs and parted them.  He whisked a little table in
+front of me, and thrust the bunch of roses into my arms.
+
+"'Now look at yourself,' he commanded.
+
+"I looked and looked again.  I had never dreamed that I could be like
+that.  The scarf and the table hid every bit of that Paris gown, and
+showed just a bit of white throat.  My plain parted hair and the
+roses--I looked," and now Delilah was blushing faintly, "I looked as I
+had always wanted to look--like the lovely ladies in the old English
+portraits.
+
+"'Do you like it?' Colin asked.
+
+"He knew that I liked it from my eyes, and for the first time since I
+had met him, he laughed.
+
+"'All my life,' he said, 'I have been looking for just such a woman as
+you.  A woman to make over--to develop.  We must be friends, Miss
+Jeliffe.  You must let me know where I can see you again.'
+
+"Well, I didn't dance any more that night.  I wrapped the scarf about
+my head, and went back to my hotel.  Colin Quale went with me.  All the
+way he talked about the sacredness of beauty.  He opened my eyes.  I
+began to see that loveliness should be suggested rather than
+emphasized.  And I have told you this because I want you to understand
+about Colin.  He isn't in love with me.  I rather fancy that back home
+in Amesbury or Newburyport, or whatever town it is that he hails from,
+there's somebody whom he'll find to marry.  To him I am a statue to be
+molded.  I am clay, marble, a tube of paint, a canvas ready for his
+brush.  It was the same way with this old house.  He wanted a setting
+for me, and he couldn't rest until he had found it.  He has not only
+changed my atmosphere, he has changed my manner--I was going to say my
+morals--he brings to me portraits of Romney ladies and Gainsborough
+ladies--until I seem positively to swim in a sea of stateliness.  And
+what I said just now about manners and morals is true.  A woman lives
+up to the clothes she wears.  If you think this change is on the
+surface, it isn't.  I couldn't talk slang in a Gainsborough hat, and be
+in keeping, so I don't talk slang; and a perfect lady in a moleskin
+mantle must have morals to match; so in my little mantle I cannot tell
+a lie."
+
+To see her with lowered lashes, telling it, was the funniest thing in
+the world, and Porter shouted.  Then her lashes were, for a moment,
+raised, and the old Delilah peeped out, shrewd, impish.
+
+"He wants me to change my name.  No, don't misunderstand me--not my
+last one.  But the first.  He says that Delilah smacks of the
+adventuress.  I don't think he is quite sure of the Bible story, but he
+gets his impressions from grand opera--and he knows that the Delilah of
+the Samson story wasn't nice--not in a lady-like sense.  My middle name
+is Anne.  He likes that better."
+
+"Lady Anne?  You'll look the part in that garden party frock he is
+designing for you."
+
+And now she had reached the question toward which she had been working.
+"Shall you go?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I doubt it.  It isn't a function from which one
+will be missed.  And the Ballards won't be there.  Mary is going over
+to New York with Constance for a few days before the sailing.  I'm to
+join them on the final day."
+
+"And you won't go to the garden party without Mary?"
+
+He found himself moved, suddenly, to speak out to her.
+
+"She wouldn't go if she were here--not with me."
+
+"Contrary Mary?" she drawled the words, giving them piquant suggestion.
+
+"It isn't contrariness.  Her independence is characteristic.  She won't
+let me do things because she wants to do them by herself.  But some day
+she'll let me do them."
+
+He said it grimly, and Delilah flashed a glance at him, then said
+carefully, "It would be a pity if she should fancy--Roger Poole."
+
+"She won't."
+
+"You can't tell--pity leads to the softer feeling, you know."
+
+"Why should she pity him?"
+
+"There's his past."
+
+"His past?  Roger Poole's?  What do you know of it, Delilah?"
+
+As he leaned forward to ask the eager question, he knew that by all the
+rules of the game he should not be discussing Mary with any one.  But
+he told himself hotly that it was for Mary's good.  If things had been
+hidden, they should be revealed--the sooner the better.
+
+Delilah gave him the details dramatically.
+
+"Then his wife is dead?"
+
+"Yes.  But before that the scandal lost him his church.  Nobody seems
+to know much of it all, I fancy.  Mary only gave me the outline."
+
+"And she knows?"
+
+"Yes.  Roger told her."
+
+"The chances are that there's--another side."
+
+He knew that it was a small thing to say.  He would not have said it to
+any one but Delilah.  She would not think him small.  To her all things
+would be fair for a lover.
+
+Before he went, that afternoon, he had promised to go with Delilah to
+the White House garden party.
+
+
+Hence a week later there floated within the vision of the celebrities
+and society folk, gathered together on the spacious lawn of the
+executive mansion, a lovely lady in faint rose-white, with a touch of
+heavenly blue in her wide hat, from which floated a veil which half hid
+her down-drooped eyes.
+
+People began at once to ask, "Who is she?"
+
+When it was discovered that her name was Jeliffe, and that she was not
+a distinguished personage, it did not matter greatly.  There was about
+her an air of distinction--a certain quiet atmosphere of withdrawal
+from the common herd which had nothing in it of haughtiness, but which
+seemed to set her apart.
+
+Porter, following in her wake as she swept across the green, thought of
+the girl in leopard skins, whose unconventionality had shocked him.
+Surely in this woman was developed a sense of herself as the center of
+a picture which was almost uncanny.  He found himself contrasting
+Mary's simplicity and lack of pose.
+
+Mary's presence here to-day would have meant much to a few people who
+knew and loved her; it would have meant nothing to the crowd who stared
+at Delilah Jeliffe.
+
+Colin Quale was there to enjoy the full triumph of the transformation.
+He hovered at a little distance from Delilah, worshiping her for the
+genius which met and matched his own.
+
+"I shall paint her in that," he said to Porter.  "It will be my
+masterpiece.  And if you could have seen her on the night I met her----"
+
+"She told me."  Porter was smiling.
+
+"It was like one of the old masters daubed by a novice, or like a room
+whitewashed over rare carvings--everything was hidden which should have
+been shown, and everything was shown which should have been hidden.  It
+was monstrous.
+
+"There are few women," he went on, "whom I could make over as I have
+made her over.  They have not the adaptability--the temperament.  There
+was one whom I could have transformed.  But I was not allowed.  She was
+little and blonde and the wife of a clergyman; she looked like a
+saint---and she should have worn straight things of clear green or red,
+or blue.  But she wore black.  I've sometimes wondered if she was such
+a saint as she looked.  There was a divorce afterward, I believe, and
+another man.  And she died."
+
+Porter, listening idly, came back.  "What type was she?"
+
+"Fra Angelico--to perfection.  I should have liked to dress her."
+
+"Did you ever tell her that you wanted to do it?"
+
+"Yes.  And she listened.  It was then that I gained my impression--that
+she was not a saint.  One night there was a little entertainment at the
+parish house and I had my way.  I made of her an angel, in a red robe
+with a golden lyre--and I painted her afterward.  She used to come to
+my studio, but I'm not sure that Poole liked it."
+
+"Poole?"  Porter was tense.
+
+"Her husband.  He could not make her happy."
+
+"Was she--the one in fault?"
+
+Colin shrugged.  "There are always two stories.  As I have said, she
+looked like a saint."
+
+"I should like to see--the picture."  Porter tried to speak lightly.
+"May I come up some day to your rooms?"
+
+Colin's face beamed.
+
+"I'm getting into new quarters.  I shall want your opinion--call me up
+before you come."
+
+It was Colin who went home with Delilah in Porter's car.  Porter
+pleaded important business, and walked for an hour around the Speedway,
+his brain in a whirl.
+
+Then Mary knew--Mary _knew_--and it had made no difference in her
+thought of Roger Poole!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+_In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World, and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy._
+
+
+_In the Tower Rooms--June._
+
+I have been working in the office for a week, and it has been the
+hardest week of my life.  But please don't think that I have any
+regrets--it is only that the world has been so lovely outside, and that
+I have been shut in.
+
+I am beginning to understand that the woman in the home has a freedom
+which she doesn't sufficiently value.  She can run down-town in the
+morning; or slip out in the afternoon, or put off until to-morrow
+something which should have been done to-day.  But men can't run out or
+slip away or put off--no matter if the sun is shining, or the birds
+singing, or the wind calling, or the open road leading to adventure.
+
+Yet there are compensations, and I am trying to see them.  I am trying
+to live up to my theories.  And I am sustained by the thought that at
+last I am a wage-earner--independent of any one--capable of buying my
+own bread and butter, though all masculine help should fail!
+
+Aunt Isabelle is a dear, and so is Susan Jenks.  And that's another
+thing to think about.  What will the wage-earning part of the world do,
+when there are no home-keepers left?  If it were not for Aunt Isabelle
+and Susan, there wouldn't be any one to trail after me with cushions
+for my tired back, and cold things for me to drink on hot days, and hot
+things to drink on cool days.
+
+I begin to perceive faintly the masculine point of view.  If I were a
+man I should want a wife for just that--to toast my slippers before the
+fire as they do in the old-fashioned stories, to have my dinner piping
+hot, and to smooth the wrinkles out of my forehead.
+
+That's why I'm not sure that I should make a comfortable sort of wife.
+I can't quite see myself toasting the slippers.  But I can see
+Constance toasting them, or Leila--but Grace and I--you see, after all,
+there are home women and the other kind, and I fancy that I'm the other
+kind.
+
+This, you'll understand, is a philosophy founded on the vast experience
+of a week in the workaday world--I'll let you know later of any further
+modification of my theories.
+
+Well, the house seems empty with just the three of us, and Pittiwitz.
+I miss Constance beyond words, and the beautiful baby.  Constance
+wanted to name her for me, but Gordon insisted that she should be
+called after Constance, so they compromised on Mary-Constance, such a
+long name for such a mite.
+
+We all went to New York to see them off.  By "all," I mean our
+crowd--Aunt Frances and Grace, Leila and the General--oh, poor little
+Leila--Delilah and Colin Quale, Aunt Isabelle and I, Susan Jenks with
+the baby in her arms until the very last minute--and Porter Bigelow.
+
+At the boat Leila went all to pieces.  I could never have believed that
+our gay little Leila would have taken anything so hard--and it was
+pitiful to see Barry.  But I can't talk about that--I can't think about
+it.
+
+Porter was dear to Leila.  He treated her as if she were his own little
+sister, and it was lovely.  He took her right away from the General,
+when the ship was leaving the dock.
+
+"Brace up, little girl," he said; "he'll be back before you know it."
+
+He literally carried her to a taxi and put her in, and then began such
+a day.  We did all of the delightful things that one can do in New York
+on a summer day, beginning with breakfast at a charming inn on Long
+Island, and ending with a roof garden at night.  And that night Leila
+was so tired that she went to sleep all in a minute, like a child, and
+forgot to grieve.
+
+Since we came back to Washington, Porter has kept it up, not letting
+Leila miss Barry any more than possible, and playing big brother to
+perfection.
+
+It is queer how we misjudge people.  If any one had told me that Porter
+could be so sweet and tender to anybody, I wouldn't have believed it.
+But perhaps Leila brings out that side of him.  Now I am independent,
+and aggressive, and I make Porter furious, and most of the time we
+fight.
+
+As I said, the house seems empty--but I am not in it much now.  If I
+had not had my work, I think I should have gone crazy.  That's why men
+don't get silly and hysterical and morbid like women--they are saved by
+the day's work.  I simply have to forget my troubles while I transcribe
+my notes on the typewriter.
+
+Of course you know what life in the Departments is without my telling
+you.  But to me it isn't monotonous or machine-like.  I am awfully
+interested in the people.  Of course my immediate work is with the nice
+old Chief.  I'm glad he is old, and gray-haired.  It makes me feel
+comfortable and chaperoned.  Do you know that I believe the reason that
+most girls hate to go out to work is because of the loss of protection.
+You see we home girls are always in the care of somebody.  I've been
+more than usually independent, but there has always been some one to
+play propriety in the background.  When I was a tiny tot there was my
+nurse.  Later at kindergarten I was sent home in a 'bus with all the
+other babies, and with a nice teacher to see that we arrived safely.
+Then there was mother and father and Barry and Constance, some of them
+wherever I went--and finally, Aunt Isabella.
+
+But in the office, I am not Mary Ballard, Daughter of the Home.  I am
+Mary Ballard, Independent Wage-Earner--stenographer at a thousand a
+year.  There's nobody to stand between me and the people I meet.  No
+one to say, "Here is my daughter, a woman of refinement and breeding;
+behind her I stand ready to hold you accountable for everything you may
+do to offend her."  In the wage-earning world a woman must stand for
+what she is--and she must set the pace.  So, in the office I find that
+I must have other manners than those in my home.  I can't meet men as
+frankly and freely.  I can't laugh with them and talk with them as I
+would over a cup of tea at my own little table.  If you and I had met,
+for example, in the office, I should have put up a barrier of formality
+between us, and I should have said, "Good-morning" when I met you and
+"Good-night" when I left you, and it would have taken us months to know
+as much about each other as you and I knew after a week in the same
+house.
+
+I suppose if I live here for years and years, that I shall grow to look
+upon my gray-haired chief as a sort of official grandfather, and my
+fellow-clerks will be brothers and sisters by adoption, but that will
+take time.
+
+I wonder if I shall work for "years and years"?  I am not sure that I
+should like it.  And there you have the woman of it.  A man knows that
+his toiling is for life; unless he grows rich and takes to golf.  But a
+woman never looks ahead and says, "This thing I must do until I die."
+She always has a sense of possible release.
+
+I am not at all sure that I am a logical person.  In one breath I am
+telling you that I like my work; and in the next I am saying that I
+shouldn't care to do it all my life.  But at least there's this for it,
+that just now it is a heavenly diversion from the worries which would
+otherwise have weighed.
+
+What did you do about lunches?  Mine are as yet an unsolved problem.  I
+like my luncheon nicely set forth on my own mahogany, with the little
+scalloped linen doilies that we've always used.  And I want my own tea
+and bread and butter and marmalade, and Susan's hot little made-overs.
+But here I am expected to rush out with the rest, and feast on
+impossible soups and stews and sandwiches in a restaurant across the
+way.  The only alternative is to bring my lunch in a box, and eat it on
+my desk.  And then I lose the breath of fresh air which I need more
+than the food.
+
+Oh, these June days!  Are they hot with you?  Here they are heavenly.
+When the windows are open, the sweet warm air blows up from the river
+and across the White Lot, and we get a whiff of roses from the gardens
+back of the President's house; and when I reach home at night, the
+fragrance of the roses in our own garden meets me long before I can see
+the house.  We have wonderful roses this year, and the hundred-leaved
+bush back of the bench by the fountain is like a rosy cloud.  I made a
+crown of them the other day, and put them on the head of the little
+bronze boy, and I took a picture which I am sending.  Somehow the boy
+of the fountain has always seemed to me to be alive, and to have in him
+some human quality, like a faun or a dryad.
+
+Last night I sat very late in the garden, and I thought of what you
+said to me that night when you tried to tell me about your life.  Do
+you remember what you said--that when I came into it, it seemed to you
+that the garden bloomed?  Well, I came across this the other day, in a
+volume of Ruskin which father gave me, and which somehow I've never
+cared to read--but now it seems quite wonderful:
+
+"You have heard it said that flowers flourish rightly only in the
+garden of some one who loves them.  I know you would like that to be
+true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your
+flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; if you could bid
+the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind, 'Come
+thou south wind and breathe upon my garden that the spices of it may
+flow forth.'  This you would think a great thing.  And do you not think
+it a greater thing that all this you can do for fairer flowers than
+these--flowers that have eyes like yours and thoughts like yours, and
+lives like yours; which, once saved, you save forever.
+
+"Will you not go down among them--far among the moorlands and the
+rocks--far in the darkness of the terrible streets; these feeble
+florets are lying with all their fresh leaves torn and their stems
+broken--will you never go down to them, not set them in order in their
+little fragrant beds, nor fence them in their shuddering from the
+fierce wind?"
+
+There's a lot more of it--but perhaps you know it.  I think I have
+always done nice little churchly things, and charitable things, but I
+haven't thought as much, perhaps, about my fellow man and woman as I
+might.  We come to things slowly here in Washington.  We are
+conservative, and we have no great industrial problems, no strikes and
+unions and things like that.  Grace says that there is plenty here to
+reform, but the squalor doesn't stick right out before your eyes as it
+does in some of the dreadful tenements in the bigger cities.  So we
+forget--and I have forgotten.  Until your letter came about that boy in
+the pines.
+
+Everything that you tell me about him is like a fairy tale.  I can shut
+my eyes and see you two in that circle of young pines.  I can hear your
+voice ringing in the stillness.  You don't tell me of yourself, but I
+know this, that in that boy you've found an audience--and he is doing
+things for you while you are doing them for him.  You are living once
+more, aren't you?
+
+And the little sad children.  I was so glad to pick out the books with
+the bright pictures.  Weren't the Cinderella illustrations dear?  With
+all the gowns as pink as they could be and the grass as green as green,
+and the sky as blue as blue.  And the yellow frogs in "The frog he
+would a wooing go," and the Walter Crane illustrations for the little
+book of songs.
+
+You must make them sing "Oh, What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond?"
+and "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's blue, Diddle-Diddle."
+
+Do you know what Aunt Isabelle is making for the little girls?  She is
+so interested.  Such rosy little aprons of pink and white checked
+gingham--with wide strings to tie behind.  And my contribution is pink
+hair ribbons.  Now won't your garden bloom?
+
+You must tell me how their little garden plots come on.  Surely that
+was an inspiration.  I told Porter about them the other night, and he
+said, "For Heaven's sake, who ever heard of beginning with gardens in
+the education of ignorant children?"
+
+But you and I begin and end with gardens, don't we?  Were the seeds all
+right, and did the bulbs come up?  Aunt Isabelle almost cried over your
+description of the joy on the little faces when the crocuses they had
+planted appeared.
+
+I am eager to hear more of them, and of you.  Oh, yes, and of Cousin
+Patty.  I simply love her.
+
+There's so much more to say, but I mustn't.  I must go to bed, and be
+fresh for my work in the morning.
+
+Ever sincerely,
+
+MARY BALLARD.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+I shall have to begin at the last of your letter, and work toward the
+beginning, for it is of my sad children that I must speak
+first--although my pen is eager to talk about you, and what your letter
+has meant to me.
+
+The sad children are no longer sad.  Against the sand-hills they are
+like rose petals blown by the wind.  Their pink aprons tied in the back
+with great bows, and the pink ribbons have transformed them, so that,
+except for their blank eyes, they might be any other little girls in
+the world.
+
+I have taught them several of the pretty songs; you should hear their
+piping voices--and with their picture books and their gardens, they are
+very busy and happy indeed.
+
+Their mother is positively illumined by the change her young folks.
+Never in her life has she seen any country but this one of charred
+pines and sand.  I find her bending over the Cinderella book, liking
+it, and liking the children's little gardens.
+
+"We ain't never had no flower garden," she confided to me.  "Jim he
+ain't had time, and I ain't had time, and I ain't never had no luck
+nohow."
+
+But the boy still means the most to me.  And you have found the reason.
+It isn't what I am doing for him, it is what he is doing for me.  If
+you could see his eyes!  They are a boy's eyes now, not those of a
+little wild animal.  He is beginning to read the simple books you sent.
+We began with "Mother Goose," and I gave him first "The King of France
+and Forty Thousand Men."  The "Oranges and Lemons" song carried on the
+Dick Whittington atmosphere which he had liked in my poem, with its
+bells of Old Bailey and Shoreditch.  He'll know his London before I get
+through with him.
+
+But we've struck even a deeper note.  One Sunday I was moved to take
+out with me your father's old Bible.  There's a rose between its
+leaves, kept for a talisman against the blue devils which sometimes get
+me in their grip.  Well, I took the old Bible out to our little
+amphitheater in the pines, and read, what do you think?  Not the Old
+Testament stories.
+
+I read the Beatitudes, and my boy listened, and when I had finished, he
+asked, "What is blessed?  And who said that?"
+
+I told him, and brought back to myself in the telling the vision of
+myself as a boy.  Oh, how far I have drifted from the dreams of that
+boy!  And if it had not been for you I should never have turned back.
+And now this boy in the pines, and the boy who was I are learning
+together, step by step.  I am trying to forget the years between.  I am
+trying to take up life where it was before I was overthrown.  I can't
+quite get hold of things yet as a man, for when I try, I feel a man's
+bitterness.  But the boy believes, and I have shut the man in me away,
+until the boy grows up.
+
+Does this sound fantastic?  To whom else would I dare write such a
+thing, but to you?  But you will understand.  I feel that I need make
+no apology.
+
+Coming now to you and your work.  I can bring no optimism to bear, I
+suppose I should say that it is well.  But there is in me too much of
+the primitive masculine for that.  When a man cares for a woman he
+inevitably wants to shield her.  But what would you?  Shall a man let
+the thing which he would cherish be buffeted by the winds?
+
+I don't like to think of you in an office, with all your pretty woman
+instincts curbed to meet the stern formality of such a life.  I don't
+like to think that any chief, however fatherly, shall dictate to you
+not only letters but rules of conduct.  I don't like to think of you as
+hustled by a crowd at lunch time.  I don't like to think of the great
+stone walls which shut you in.  I don't want your wings clipped for
+such a cage.
+
+And there is this I must say, that all men do not need wives to toast
+their slippers or to serve their meals piping hot, or even to smooth
+the wrinkles, although I confess that there's an appeal in this last.
+Some of us need wives for inspiration, for spiritual and mental uplift,
+for the word of cheer when our hearts are weary--for the strength which
+believes in our strength--one doesn't exactly think of Juliet as
+toasting slippers, or of Rosalind, or of Portia, yet such women never
+for one moment failed their lovers.
+
+My Cousin Patty says that work will do you good, and we have great
+arguments.  I have told her of you, not everything, because there are
+some things which are sacred.  But I have told her that life for me,
+since I have known you, has taken on new meanings.
+
+She glories in your independence and wants to know you.  Some day, it
+is written, I am sure, that you two shall meet.  In some things you are
+much alike--in others utterly different, with the differences made by
+heredity and environment.
+
+My little Cousin Patty is the composite of three generations.  Amid her
+sweets and spices, she is as domestic as her grandmother, but her mind
+sweeps on to the future of women in a way which makes me gasp.
+
+Politics are the breath of her life.  She comes of a long line of
+statesmen, and having no father or brother or husband to uphold the
+family traditions of Democracy, she upholds them herself.  She is
+intensely interested just now in the party nominations.  A split among
+the Republicans gives her hope of the election of the Democratic
+candidate.  She's such a feminine little creature with her soft voice
+and appealing manner, with her big white aprons covering her up, and
+curling wisps of black hair falling over her little ears, that the
+contrasts in her life are almost funny.  In our evenings over the
+little white boxes, we mix questions of State Rights and Free Trade
+with our bridal decorations, and it seems to me that I shall never
+again go to a wedding without a vision of my little Cousin Patty among
+her orange blossoms, laying down the law on current politics.
+
+The negro question in Cousin Patty's mind is that of the Southerner of
+the better class.  It isn't these descendants of old families who hate
+the negro.  Such gentlefolk do not, of course, want equality, but they
+want fair treatment for the weaker race.  Find me a white man who raves
+with rabid prejudice against the black, and I will show you one whose
+grandfather belonged not to the planter but to the cracker class, or a
+Northerner grafting on Southern Stock.  Even in slave times there was
+rancor between the black man and what he called "po' white trash" and
+it still continues.
+
+The picture of the little bronze boy with his crown of roses lies on my
+desk.  I should like much to sit with you on the bench beneath the
+hundred-leaved bush.  What things I should have to say to you!  Things
+which I dare not write, lest you never let me write again.
+
+You glean the best from everything.  That you should take my little
+talk about gardens, and fit it to what Ruskin has said, is a gracious
+act.  You speak of that night in the garden.  Do you remember that you
+wore a scarlet wrap of thin silk?  I could think of nothing as you came
+toward me, but of some glorious flower of almost supernatural bloom.
+All about you the garden was dying.  But you were Life--Life as it
+springs up afresh from a world that is dead.
+
+I know how empty the old house seems to you, without Barry, without
+Constance, without the beautiful baby whom I have never seen.  To me it
+can never seem empty with you in it.  Is the saying of such things
+forbidden?  Please believe that I don't mean to force them on you, but
+I write as I think.
+
+By this post Cousin Patty is sending a box of her famous cake, for you
+and Aunt Isabelle.  There's enough for an army, so I shall think of you
+as dispensing tea in the garden, with your friends about you--lucky
+friends--and with the little bronze boy looking on and laughing.
+
+To Mary of the Garden, then, this letter goes with all good wishes.
+
+ROGER POOLE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+_In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes; and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary._
+
+
+As has been said, Porter Bigelow was not a snob, and he was a
+gentleman.  But even a gentleman can, when swayed by primal emotions,
+convince himself that high motives rule, even while performing acts of
+doubtful honor.
+
+It was thus that Porter proved to himself that his interest in Roger
+Poole's past was purely that of the protector and friend of Mary
+Ballard.  Mary must not throw herself away.  Mary must be guarded
+against the tragedy of marriage with a man who was not worthy.  And who
+could do this better than he?
+
+In pursuance of his policy of protection he took his way one afternoon
+in July to Colin's studio.
+
+"I'm staying in town," Colin told him, "because of Miss Jeliffe.  Her
+father is held by the long Session.  I'm painting another picture of
+her, and fixing up these rooms in the interim--how do you like them?"
+
+In his furnishing, Colin had broken away from conventional tradition.
+Here were no rugs hung from balconies, no rich stuffs and suits of
+armor.  It was simply a cool little place, with a big window
+overlooking one of the parks.  Its walls were tinted gray, and there
+were a few comfortable rattan chairs, with white linen cushions.  A
+portrait of Delilah dominated the room.  He had painted her in the
+costume which she had worn at the garden party--in all the glory of
+cool greens and faint pink, and heavenly blue.
+
+Porter surveying the portrait said, slowly, "You said that you had
+painted--other women?"
+
+"Yes--but none so satisfactory as Miss Jeliffe."
+
+"There was the little saint--in red."
+
+"You remember that?  It is just a small canvas."
+
+"You said you'd show it to me."
+
+Colin, rummaging in a second room, called back, "I've found it, and
+here's another, of a woman who seemed to fit in with a Botticelli
+scheme.  She was the long lank type."
+
+Porter was not interested in the Botticelli woman, nor in Colin's
+experiments.  He wanted to see Roger Poole's wife, so he gave scant
+attention to Colin's enthusiastic comments on the first canvas which he
+displayed.
+
+"She has the long face.  D'you see?  And the thin long body.  But I
+couldn't make her a success.  That's the joy of Delilah Jeliffe.  She
+has the temperament of an actress and simply lives in her part.  But
+this woman couldn't.  And lobster suppers and lovely lank ladies are
+not synonymous--so I gave her up."
+
+But Porter was reaching for the other sketch.
+
+With it in his hand, he surveyed the small creature with the angel
+face.  In her dress of pure clear red, with the touch of gold in the
+halo, and a lyre in her hand, she seemed lighted by divine fire, above
+the earth, appealing.
+
+"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife
+was a failure," he ventured.
+
+Colin shrugged.  "Who can tell?" he said.  "There were moments when she
+did not seem a saint."
+
+"What do you mean?"  Porter's voice was almost irritable.
+
+"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected--"now and then a
+glance, a word--seemed to give her away."
+
+"You may have misunderstood."
+
+"Perhaps.  But men who know women rarely misunderstand--that kind."
+
+"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.
+
+"Several times.  He promised to be a great man.  It was a pity."
+
+"And you say she married again."
+
+"Yes, and died shortly after."
+
+The subject ended there, and Porter went away with the vision in his
+mind of Roger's wife, and of what the picture of the little saint in
+red would mean to Mary Ballard if she could see it.
+
+The thought, having lodged like an evil seed, grew and flourished.
+
+Of late he had seen comparatively little of Mary.  He was not sure
+whether she planned deliberately to avoid him, or whether her work
+really absorbed her.  That she wrote to Roger Poole he knew.  She did
+not try to hide the fact, but spoke frankly of Roger's life in the
+pines.
+
+The flames of his jealous thought burned high and hot.  He refused to
+go with his father and mother to the northern coast, preferring to stay
+and swelter in the heat of Washington where he could be near Mary.  He
+grew restless and pale, unlike himself.  And he found in Leila a
+confidante and friend, for the General, like Mr. Jeliffe, was held in
+town by the late Congress.
+
+Little-Lovely Leila was Little-Lonely Leila now.  Yet after her
+collapse at the boat, she had shown her courage.  She had put away
+childish things and was developing into a steadfast little woman, who
+busied herself with making her father happy.  She watched over him and
+waited on him.  And he who loved her wondered at her unexpected
+strength, not knowing that she was saying to herself, "I am a wife--not
+a child.  And I mustn't make it hard for father--I mustn't make it hard
+for anybody.  And when Barry comes back I shall be better fitted to
+share his life if I have learned to be brave."
+
+She wrote to Barry--such cheerful letters, and one of them sent him to
+Gordon.
+
+"It would have been better if I had brought her with me," he said, as
+he read extracts; "she's a little thing, Gordon, but she's a wonder.
+And she's the prop on which I lean."
+
+"Presently you will be the prop," Gordon responded, "and that's what a
+husband should be, Barry, as you'll find out when you're married."
+
+When!--if Gordon had only known how Barry dreamed of Leila--in her
+yellow gown, trudging by his side toward the church on the
+hill--dancing in the moonlight, a primrose swaying on its stem.  How
+unquestioning had been her faith in him!  And he must prove himself
+worthy of that faith.
+
+And he did prove it by a steadiness which astonished Gordon, and by an
+industry which was almost unnatural, and he wrote to Leila, "I shall
+show them, dear heart, and then they'll let me have you."
+
+It was on the night after Leila received this letter that Porter came
+to take her for a ride.
+
+"Ask Mary to go with us," he said; "she won't go with me alone."
+
+Leila's glance was sympathetic.  "Did she say she wouldn't?"
+
+"I asked her.  And she said she was--tired.  As if a ride wouldn't rest
+her," hotly.
+
+"It would.  You let me try her, Porter."
+
+Leila's voice at the telephone was coaxing.  "I want to go, Mary, dear,
+and Dad is busy at the Capitol, and----"
+
+"But I said I wouldn't."
+
+"Porter won't care, just so he gets you.  He's at my elbow now,
+listening.  And he says you are to ask Aunt Isabelle, and sit with her
+on the back seat if you want to be fussy."
+
+"Leila," Porter was protesting, "I didn't say anything of the kind."
+
+She went on regardless, "Well, if he didn't say it he meant it.  And we
+want you, both of us, awfully."
+
+Leila hanging up the receiver shook her head at Porter.  "You don't
+know how to manage Mary.  If you'd stay away from her for weeks--and
+not try to see her--she'd begin to wonder where you were."
+
+"No she wouldn't."  Porter's tone was weighted with woe.  "She'd simply
+be glad, and she'd sit in her Tower Rooms and write letters to Roger
+Poole, and forget that I was on the earth."
+
+It was out now--all his flaming jealousy.  Leila stared at him.  "Oh,
+Porter," she asked, breathlessly, "do you really think that she cares
+for Roger?"
+
+"I know it."
+
+"Has she told you?"
+
+"Not--exactly.  But she hasn't denied it.  And he sha'n't have her.
+She belongs to me, Leila."
+
+Leila sighed.  "Oh, why should love affairs always go wrong?"
+
+"Mine shall go right," Porter assured her grimly.  "I'm not in this
+fight to give up, Leila."
+
+When they took Mary in and Aunt Isabelle, Mary insisted that Leila
+should keep her seat beside Porter.  "I'm dead tired," she said, "and I
+don't want to talk."
+
+And now Porter, aiming strategically for Colin Quale's studio, took
+them everywhere else but in the direction of his objective point.  But
+at last, after a long ride, they crossed the park which was faced by
+Colin's rooms.
+
+"Have you seen Delilah's portrait?" Porter asked, casually.
+
+They had not, and he knew it.
+
+"If Colin's in, why not stop?"
+
+They agreed and found Delilah there, and her father.  The night was
+very hot, the room was faintly illumined by a hanging silver lamp in an
+alcove.  From among the shadows, Delilah rose.  "Colin is telephoning
+to the club for lemonades and things," she said; "he'll be back in a
+minute."
+
+"We came to see your picture," Mary informed her.
+
+"He is painting me again," Delilah said, "in the moonlight, like this."
+
+She seated herself in the wide window, so that back of her was the
+silver haze of the glorious night Her dress of thin fine white was
+unrelieved.
+
+Colin, coming in, set down his tray hastily and hastened to change the
+pose of her head.  "It will be hard to get just the effect I want," he
+told them.  "It must not be hard black and white, but luminous."
+
+"I want them to see the other picture," Porter said.
+
+Colin switched on the lights.  "I'll never do better than this," he
+said.
+
+"Do you like it, Mary?" Delilah asked.  "It is the garden party dress."
+
+"I love it," Mary said.  "It isn't just the dress, Delilah.  It's you.
+It's so joyous--as if you were expecting much of life."
+
+"I am," Delilah said.  "I'm expecting everything."
+
+"And you'll get it," Colin stated.  "You won't wait for any one to hand
+it to you; you'll simply reach out and take it."
+
+Porter's eyes were searching.   "Look here, Quale," he said, at last,
+"do you mind letting us see the others?--that Botticelli woman and the
+Fra Angelico--they show your versatility."
+
+Colin hesitated.  "They are crude beside this."
+
+But Porter insisted.  "They're charming.  Trot them out, Quale."
+
+So out they came---the picture of the lank lady with the long face, and
+the picture of the little saint in red.
+
+It was to the girl in red that they gave the most attention.
+
+"How lovely she is," Mary said, "and how sweet."
+
+But Delilah, observing closely, did not agree with her.  "I'm not sure.
+Some women look like that who are little fiends.  You haven't shown me
+this before, Colin.  Who was she?"
+
+Colin evaded.  "Some one I knew a long time ago."
+
+Porter was shaken inwardly by the thought that the little blond artist
+was proving himself a gentleman.  He would not proclaim to the world
+what he had told Porter in confidence.
+
+Porter's instincts, however, were purely primitive.  He wanted to shout
+to the housetops, "That's the picture of Roger Poole's wife.  Look at
+her and see how sweet she is.  And then decide if she made her own
+unhappiness."
+
+But he did not shout.  He kept silent and watched Mary.  She was still
+studying the picture attentively.  "I don't see how you can say that
+she could be anything but sweet, Delilah.  I think it is the face of a
+truthful child."
+
+Porter's heart leaped.  The time would come when he would tell her that
+the picture of the little trustful child was the picture of Roger
+Poole's wife.  And then----
+
+Colin had turned off the lights again.  They sat now among the shadows
+and drank cool things and ate the marvelous little cakes which were a
+specialty of the pastry cook around the corner.
+
+"In a week we'll all be away from here," Delilah said.  "I wonder why
+we are so foolish.  If it weren't for the fact that we've got the
+habit, we'd be just as comfortable at home."
+
+"I shall be at home," Mary said.  "I'm not entitled yet to a vacation."
+
+"Don't you hate it?" Delilah demanded frankly.
+
+Mary hesitated.  "No, I don't.  I can't say that I really like it--but
+it gave me quite a wonderful feeling to open my first pay envelope."
+
+"Women have gone mad," Porter said.  "They are deliberately turning
+away from womanly things to make machines of themselves."
+
+Delilah, taking up the cudgels for Mary, demanded, "Is Mary turning her
+back on womanly things any more than I?  I am making a business of
+capturing society--Mary is simply holding down her job until Romance
+butts into her life."
+
+Colin stopped her.  "I wish you'd put your twentieth century mind on
+your mid-Victorian clothes," he said, "and live up to them--in your
+language."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "Well, I told the truth if I didn't do it elegantly.
+We are both working for things which we want.  Mary wants Romance and I
+want social recognition."
+
+Leila sighed.  "It isn't always what we want that we get, is it?" she
+asked, and Porter answered with decision, "It is not.  Life throws us
+usually brickbats instead of bouquets."
+
+Colin did not agree.  "Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.
+It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe.  And I consider that a
+pretty big slice of good fortune."
+
+"You're a nice boy, Colin," Delilah told him, "and I like you--and I
+like your philosophy.  I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve."
+
+The others were silent.  Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at
+that moment the things that they wanted.  Porter's demands on destiny
+were definite.  He wanted Mary.  Leila wanted Barry.  Mary did not know
+what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.
+
+Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back
+through the park to the old house on the hill.
+
+"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.
+
+"But it is so late, Porter."
+
+"I've been here lots of times as late as this.  I won't be sent home,
+Mary, not to-night."
+
+Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs.  Mary sat on
+the porch with Porter.  Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.
+For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:
+
+"Mary, there's something I want to tell you.  You may think that I'm
+interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it.  I can't see you
+doing things which will make you unhappy."
+
+"I'm not unhappy.  What do you mean, Porter?"
+
+"You will be--if you go on as you are going.  Mary--I took you to
+Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the
+little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You know what you said about her--that she had such a trustful,
+childish face?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"That was the picture of Roger Poole's wife, Mary."
+
+She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.
+
+At last she asked, "How do you know?"
+
+"Quale told me.  I fancy he hadn't heard that Poole had lived here, and
+that we knew him.  So he let the name drop carelessly."
+
+"Well?"
+
+He turned on her flaming.  "I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.
+But you're unjust.  You think I've been meddling.  But I haven't.  It
+is only this.  If Poole could break the heart of one woman, he can
+break the heart of another--and he sha'n't break yours."
+
+"Who told you that he broke her heart?"
+
+"You've seen the picture.  Could a woman with a face like that do
+anything bad enough to wreck a man's life?  I can't believe it, Mary.
+There are always two sides of a question."
+
+She did not answer at once.  Then she said, "How did you know
+about--Roger?"
+
+"Delilah told me--he couldn't expect to keep it secret."
+
+"He did not expect it; and he had much to bear."
+
+"Then he has told you, and has pleaded with eloquence?  But that
+child's face in the picture pleads with me."
+
+It did plead.  Remembering it, Mary was assailed by her first doubts.
+It was such a child's face, with saint's eyes.
+
+Porter's voice was proceeding.  "A man can always make out a case for
+himself.  And you have only his word for what he did.  Oh, I suppose
+you'll think I'm all sorts of a cad to talk this way.  But I can't see
+you drifting, drifting toward a danger which may wreck your life."
+
+"Why should it wreck my life?"
+
+"Because Poole, whatever the merits of the case--doesn't seem to me
+strong enough to shape his destiny and yours.  Was it strong for him to
+let go as he did, just because that woman failed him?  Was it strong
+for him to hide himself here--like--like a criminal?  A strong man
+would have faced the world.  He would have tried to rise out of his
+wreck.  His actions all through spell weakness.  I could bear your not
+marrying me, Mary.  But I can't bear to see you marry a man who isn't
+worthy of you.  To see you unhappy would be torture for me."
+
+In his earnestness he had struck a genuine note, and she recognized it.
+
+"I know," she said, unsteadily.  "I believe that you think you are
+fighting my battle, instead of your own.  But I don't think Roger Poole
+would--lie."
+
+"Not consciously.  But he'd create the wrong impression--we can never
+see our own faults--and he would blame her, of course.  But the man who
+has made one woman unhappy would make another unhappy, Mary."
+
+Mary was shaken.
+
+"Please don't put it so--inevitably.  Roger hasn't any claim on me
+whatever."
+
+"Hasn't he?  Oh, Mary, hasn't he?"
+
+There was hope in his voice, and she shrank from it.
+
+"No," she said, gently, "he is just--my friend.  As yet I can't believe
+evil of him.  But I don't love him.  I don't love anybody--I don't want
+any man in my life."
+
+She thought that she meant it.  She thought it, even while her heart
+was crying out in defense of the man he had maligned.
+
+"How can one know the truth of such a thing?" she went on, unsteadily.
+"One can only believe in one's friends."
+
+"Mary," eagerly, "you've known Poole only for a few months.  You've
+known me always.  I can give you a devotion equal to anybody's.  Why
+not drop all this contrariness--and come to me?"
+
+"Why not?" she asked herself.  Roger Poole was obscure, and destined to
+be obscure.  More than that, there would always be people like Porter
+who would question his past.  "It is the whispers that kill," Roger had
+said.  And people would always whisper.
+
+She rose and walked to the end of the porch.  Porter followed her, and
+they stood looking down into the garden.  It was in a riot of summer
+bloom--and the fragrance rushed up to them.
+
+The garden!  And herself a flower!  It was such things that Roger Poole
+could say, and which Porter could never say.  And he could not say them
+because he could not think them.  The things that Porter thought were
+commonplace, the things which Roger thought were wonderful.  If she
+married Porter Bigelow, she would walk always with her feet firmly on
+the ground.  If she married Roger Poole they would fly in the upper air
+together.
+
+"Mary," Porter was insisting, "dear girl."
+
+She held up her hand.  "I won't listen," she said, almost passionately;
+"don't imagine things about me, Porter.  I have my work--and my
+freedom--I won't give them up for anybody."
+
+If she said the words with something less than her former confidence he
+was not aware of it.  How could he know that she was making a last
+desperate stand?
+
+When at last she sent him away, he went with an air of depression which
+touched her.
+
+"I've risked being thought a cad," he said, "but I had to do it."
+
+"I know.  I don't blame you, dear boy."
+
+She gave him her hand upon it, and he went away, and she was left alone
+in the moonlight.
+
+And when the last echo of his purring car had died away into silence
+she went down and sat in the garden on the bench beside the
+hundred-leaved bush.  Aunt Isabelle's light was still burning, and
+presently she would go up and say "Good-night," but for the moment she
+must be alone.  Alone to face the doubts which were facing her.
+Suppose, oh, suppose, that the things which Roger had told her about
+his marriage had been distorted to make his story sound plausible?
+Suppose the little wife had suffered, had been driven from him by
+coldness, by cruelty?  One never knew the real inner histories of such
+domestic tragedies.  There was Leila, for example, who knew nothing of
+Barry's faults, and Barry had not told her.  Might not other men have
+faults which they dared not tell?  The world was full of just such
+tragedies.
+
+When at last Mary reached the Tower Rooms, she undressed in the dark.
+She said her prayers in the dark, out loud, as had been her childish
+habit.  And this was what she said: "Oh, Lord, I want to believe in
+Roger.  Let me believe--don't let me doubt--let me believe."
+
+When at last she slept, it was to dream and wake and to dream again.
+And waking or dreaming, out of the shadows came ghostly creatures, who
+whispered, "His little wife was a saint--how could she make him
+unhappy?"  And again, "He may have been cruel, how do you know that he
+was not cruel?"  And again, "If you were his wife, you would be
+thinking always of that other wife--thinking--thinking--thinking."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+_In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball._
+
+
+The summer slipped by, monotonously hot, languidly humid.  And it was
+on these hot and humid days that Mary felt the grind of her new
+occupation.  She grew to dread her entrance into the square close
+office room, with its gaunt desks and its unchanging occupants.  She
+waxed restless through the hours of confinement, escaping thankfully at
+the end of a long day.
+
+She longed for a whiff of the sea, for the deeps of some forest, for
+the fields of green which must be somewhere beyond the blue-gray haze
+which had settled over the shimmering city.
+
+She began to show the effects of her unaccustomed drudgery.  She grew
+pale and thin.  Aunt Isabelle was worried.  The two women sat much by
+the fountain.  Mary had begged Aunt Isabelle to go away to some cooler
+spot.  But the gentle lady had refused.
+
+"This is home to me, my dear," she had said, "and I don't mind the
+heat.  And there's no happiness for me in big hotels."
+
+"There'd be happiness for me anywhere that I could get a breath of
+coolness," Mary said, restlessly.  "I can hardly wait for the fall
+days."
+
+Yet when the cooler days came, there was the dreariness of rain and of
+sighing winds.  And now it was November, and Roger Poole had been away
+a year.
+
+The garden was dead, and Mary was glad.  Dead gardens seemed to fit
+into her mood better than those which bloomed.  Resolutely she set
+herself to be cheerful; conscientiously, she told herself that she must
+live up to the theories which she had professed; sternly, she called
+herself to account that she did not exult in the freedom which she had
+craved.  Constantly her mind warred with her heart, and her heart won;
+and she faced the truth that all seasons would be dreary without Roger
+Poole.
+
+Her letters to him of late had lacked the spontaneity which had at
+first characterized them.  She knew it, and tried to regain her old
+sense of ease and intimacy.  But the doubts which Porter had planted
+had borne fruit.  Always between her and Roger floated the vision of
+the little saint in red.
+
+It was inevitable that Roger's letters should change.  He ceased to
+show her the side which for a time he had so surprisingly revealed.
+Their correspondence became perfunctory--intermittent.
+
+"It is my own fault," Mary told herself, yet the knowledge did not make
+things easier.
+
+And now began the winter of her discontent.  If any one had told her in
+her days of buoyant self-confidence that she would ever go to bed weary
+and wake up hopeless, she would have scorned the idea; yet the fact
+remained that the fruit of her independence was Dead Sea apples.
+
+It was a letter from Barry which again brought her head up, and made
+her life march once more to a martial tune.
+
+"I have found the work for which I am fitted," he wrote; "you don't
+know how good it seems.  For so many years I went to my desk like a boy
+driven to school.  But now--why, I work after hours for the sheer love
+of it--and because it seems to bring me nearer to Leila."
+
+This from Barry, the dawdler!  And she who had preached was whimpering
+about heat and cold, about long hours and hard work--as if these things
+matter!
+
+Why, life was a Great Adventure, and she had forgotten!
+
+And now she began to look about her--to find, if she could, some ray to
+illumine her workaday world.
+
+She found it in the friendliness and companionship of her office
+comrades--good comrades they were--fighting the battle of drudgery
+shoulder to shoulder, sharing the fortunes of the road, needing, some
+of them, the uplift of her courage, giving some of them more than they
+asked.
+
+As Mary grew into their lives, she grew away somewhat from her old
+crowd.  And if, at times, her gallant fight seemed futile--if at times
+she could not still the cry of her heart, it was because she was a
+woman, made to be loved, fitted for finer things and truer things than
+writing cabalistic signs on a tablet and transcribing them, later, on
+the typewriter.
+
+Leila had refused to be dropped from Mary's life.  She came, whenever
+she could, to walk a part of the way home with her friend, and the two
+girls would board a car and ride to the edge of the town, preferring to
+tramp along the edges of the Soldiers' Home or through the Park to the
+more formal promenade through the city streets.
+
+It was during these little adventures that Mary became conscious of
+certain reserves in the younger girl.  She was closely confidential,
+yet the open frankness of the old days was gone.
+
+Once Mary spoke of it.  "You've grown up, all in a minute, Leila," she
+said.  "You're such a quiet little mouse."
+
+Leila sighed.  "There's so much to think about."
+
+Watching her, Mary decided.  "It is harder for her than for Barry.  He
+has his work.  But she just waits and longs for him."
+
+In waiting and longing, Little-Lovely Leila grew more mouse-like than
+ever.  And at last Mary spoke to the General.  "She needs a change."
+
+He nodded.  "I know it.  I am thinking of taking her over in the
+spring."
+
+"How lovely.  Have you told her?"
+
+"No--I thought it would be a grand surprise."
+
+"Tell her now, dear General.  She needs to look forward."
+
+So the General, who had been kept in the house nearly all winter by his
+rheumatism, spoke of certain baths in Germany.
+
+"I thought I'd go over and try them," he informed his small daughter,
+on the day after his talk with Mary, "and you could stop and call on
+Barry."
+
+"Barry!"  She made a little rush toward him.  "Dad, _Dad_, do you mean
+it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+She tucked her head into his shoulder and cried for happiness.  "Dad,
+I've missed him so."
+
+With this hope held out to her, Little-Lovely Leila grew radiant.  Once
+more her feet danced along the halls, and the music of her voice
+trilled bird-like in the big rooms.
+
+Delilah, discussing it with her artist, said: "Leila makes me believe
+in Romance with a big R.  But I couldn't love like that."
+
+Colin smiled.  "You'd love like a lioness.  I've subdued you outwardly,
+but within you are still primitive."
+
+"I wonder----" Delilah mused.
+
+"The man for you," Colin turned to her suddenly, "is Porter Bigelow.
+Of course I'm taking it from the artist's point of view.  You're made
+for each other--a pair of young gods--his red head just topping your
+black one--It was that way at the garden party; any one could see it."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "His eyes aren't for me.  With him it is Mary
+Ballard.  If I were in love with him, I should hate Mary.  But I don't;
+I love her.  And she's in love with Roger Poole."
+
+Colin looked up from the samples from which he and Delilah were
+choosing her spring wardrobe.
+
+"Poole?  I knew his wife," he said abruptly; "it was her picture that I
+showed you the other night--the little saint in the Fra Angelico
+pose--it didn't come to me until afterward that he might be the same
+Poole of whom I had heard you speak."
+
+Delilah swept across the room, and turned the canvas outward.  "Roger
+Poole's wife," she said, "of all things!"  Then she stood staring
+silently.
+
+"You didn't tell us who she was."
+
+"No," he was weighing mentally Porter's attitude in the matter, "no one
+knew but Bigelow."
+
+"And he showed this to Mary?"  They looked at each other, and laughed.
+"Perhaps all's fair in love," Delilah murmured, at last, "but I
+wouldn't have believed it of him."
+
+As she turned the picture toward the wall, Delilah decided, "Mary
+Ballard is worth a hundred of such women as this."
+
+"A woman like you is worth a hundred of them," Colin stated
+deliberately.
+
+Delilah flushed faintly.  Colin Quale was giving to her something which
+no other man had given.  And she liked it.
+
+"Do you know what you are doing to me?" she said, as she sat down by
+the window.  "You are making me think that I am like the pictures you
+paint of me."
+
+"You are," was the quiet response; "it's just a matter of getting
+beneath the surface."
+
+There was a pause during which his fingers and eyes were busy with the
+shining samples--then Delilah said: "If Leila and her father go to
+Germany in May, I'm going to get Dad to go too.  I don't suppose you'd
+care to join us?  You'll want to get back to that girl in Amesbury or
+Newburyport, or whatever it is."
+
+"What girl?"
+
+"The one you are going to marry."
+
+"There is no girl," said Colin quietly, "in Amesbury or Newburyport;
+there never has been and there never will be."  Coming close, he held
+against her cheek a sample of soft pale yellow.  "Leila Dick wears that
+a lot, but it's not for you."  He stood back and gazed at her
+meditatively.
+
+"Colin," she protested, "when you look at me that way, I feel like a
+wooden model."
+
+He smiled, "That's what you have come to mean to me," he said; "I don't
+want to think of you as a woman."
+
+"Why not?" asked daring Delilah.
+
+"Because it is, to say the least, disturbing."
+
+He occupied himself with his samples, shaking his head over them.
+
+"None of these will do for the Secretary's dinner.  You must have lace
+with many flounces caught up in the new fashion.  And I shall want your
+hair different.  Take it down."
+
+She was used to him now, and presently it fell about her in all its
+shining sable beauty; and as he separated the strands, it was like a
+thing alive under his hands.
+
+He crowned her head with the braids in a sort of old-fashioned coronet.
+And so arranged, the old fashion became a new fashion, and Delilah was
+like a queen.
+
+"You see--with the lace and your pearl ornaments.  There is nothing
+startling; but no one will be like you."
+
+And there was no one like her.  And because of the dress, which Colin
+had planned, and because of the way which he had taught her to do her
+hair, Delilah annexed to her train of admirers on the night of the
+Secretary's dinner a distinguished titled gentleman, who was looking
+for a wife to grace his ancestral halls--and who was impressed mightily
+by the fact that Delilah looked the part to perfection.
+
+He proposed to her in three weeks, and was so sure of his ability to
+get what he wanted that he was stunned by her answer:
+
+"Perhaps I'll make up my mind to it.  I'll give you your answer when I
+come over in the spring."
+
+"But I want my answer now."
+
+"I'm sorry.  But I can't."
+
+When she told Colin of her abrupt dismissal of the discomfited
+gentleman, she asked, almost plaintively, "Why couldn't I say 'yes' at
+once?  It is the thing I've always wanted."
+
+"Have you really wanted it?"
+
+"Of course."
+
+"Not of course.  You want other things more."
+
+"What for example?"
+
+"I think you know."
+
+She did know, and she drew a quick breath.  Then laughed.
+
+"You're trying to teach me to understand my--emotions, Colin, as you
+have taught me to understand my clothes."
+
+"You're an apt pupil."
+
+Tea came in, just then, and she poured for him, telling his fortune
+afterward in his teacup.
+
+"Are you superstitious?" she asked him, having worked out a future of
+conventional happiness and success.
+
+"Not enough to believe what you have told me."  He was flickering his
+pale lashes and smiling.  "Life shall bring me what I want because I
+shall make it come."
+
+"Oh, you think that?"
+
+"Yes.  All things are possible to those of us who believe they are
+possible."
+
+"Perhaps to a man.  But--to a woman.  There's Leila, for example.  I'm
+afraid----"
+
+"You mustn't be.  Life will come right for her."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"It comes right for all of us, in one way or another.  You'll find it
+works out.  You're afraid for your little friend because of
+Ballard--he's pretty gay, eh?"
+
+"Yes.  More, I think, than she understands.  But everybody else knows
+that they sent him away for that.  And I can't see any way out.  If he
+marries her he'll break her heart; if he doesn't marry her he'll break
+it--and there you have it."
+
+"You must not put these 'ifs' in their way.  There'll be some way out."
+
+She rose and went to a table to a little cabinet which she unlocked.
+
+"You wouldn't let me have my crystal ball in evidence," she said,
+"because it doesn't fit in with the rest of my new furnishings--but it
+tells things."
+
+"What things?"
+
+"I'll show you."  She set it on the table between them.  "Put your hand
+on each side of it."
+
+He grasped it with his flexible fingers.  "Don't invent----" he warned.
+
+She began to speak slowly, and she was still at it when Porter's big
+car drove up to the door, and he came in with Mary and Leila.
+
+"I picked up these two on their way home," Porter explained; "it is
+raining pitchforks, and I'm in my open car.  And so, kind lady, dear
+lady, will you give us tea?"
+
+Colin and Delilah, each a little pale, breathing quickly, rose to greet
+their guests.
+
+"She's been telling my fortune," Colin informed them, while Delilah
+gave orders for more hot water and cups.  "It's a queer business."
+
+Porter scoffed.  "A fake, if there ever was one."
+
+Colin mused.  "Perhaps.  But she has the air of a seeress when she says
+it all--and she has me slated for a--masterpiece--and marriage."
+
+Leila, standing by the table, touched the crystal globe with doubtful
+fingers.  "Do you really see things, Delilah?"
+
+"Sit down, and I'll prove it."
+
+Leila shrank.  "Oh, no."
+
+But Porter insisted.  "Be a sport, Leila."
+
+So she settled herself in the chair which Colin had occupied, her curly
+locks half hiding her expectant eyes.
+
+And now Delilah looked, bending over the ball.
+
+There was a long silence.  Then Delilah seemed to shake herself, as one
+shakes off a trance.  She pushed the ball away from her with a sudden
+gesture.  "There's nothing," she said, in a stifled voice; "there's
+really nothing to tell, Leila."
+
+"I knew that you'd back out with all of us here to listen," Porter
+triumphed.
+
+But Colin saw more than that.
+
+"I think we want our tea," he said, "while it is hot," and he handed
+Delilah the cups, and busied himself to help her with the sugar and
+lemon, and to pass the little cakes, and all the time he talked in his
+pleasant half-cynical, half-earnest fashion, until their minds were
+carried on to other things.
+
+When at last they had gone, he came back to her quickly.
+
+"What was it?" he asked.  "What did you see in the ball?"
+
+She shivered.  "It was Barry.  Oh, Colin, I don't really believe in
+it--perhaps it was just my imagination because I am worried about
+Leila, but I saw Barry looking at me with such a white strange face out
+of the dark."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+_In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar._
+
+
+It was in February that Roger wrote somewhat formally to ask if his
+Cousin Patty might have a room in Mary's big house during the coming
+inauguration.
+
+"She is supremely happy over the Democratic victory, but in spite of
+her advanced ideas, she is a timid little thing, and she has no
+knowledge of big cities.  I feel that many difficulties would be
+avoided if you could take her in.  I want her, too, to know you.  I had
+thought at first that I might come with her.  But I think not.  I am
+needed here."
+
+He did not say why he was needed.  He said little of himself and of his
+work.  And Mary wondered.  Had his enthusiasm waned?  Was he, after
+all, swayed by impulse, easily discouraged?  Was Porter right, and was
+Roger's failure in life due not to outside forces, but to weakness
+within himself?
+
+She wrote him that she should be glad to have Cousin Patty, and it was
+on the first of March that Cousin Patty came.
+
+Once in four years the capital city takes on a supreme holiday aspect.
+In other years there may be parades, in other years there may be
+pageants--it is an every-day affair, indeed, to hear up and down the
+Avenue the beat of music, and the tramp of many feet.  There are
+funerals of great men, with gun carriages draped with the flag, and
+with the Marine Band playing the "Dead March."  There are gay
+cavalcades rushing in from Fort Myer, to escort some celebrity; there
+are pathetic files of black folk, gorgeous in the insignia of some
+society which gives to its dead members the tribute of a
+conspicuousness which they have never known in life.  There are circus
+parades, and suffrage parades, minstrel parades and parades of the boys
+from the high schools--all the display of military and motley by which
+men advertise their importance and their wares.
+
+But the Inauguration is the one great and grand effort.  All work stops
+for it; all traffic stops for it; all of the policemen in the town
+patrol it; half the detectives in the country are imported to protect
+it.  All of fashion views it from the stands up-town; all of the
+underworld gazes at it from the south side of the street down-town.
+Packed trains bring the people.  And the people are crowded into hotels
+and boarding-houses, and into houses where thresholds are never crossed
+at any other time by paying guests.
+
+To the inauguration of 1913 was added another element of interest--the
+parade of the women, on the day preceding the changing of presidents.
+Hence the red and white and blue of former decorations were enlivened
+by the yellow and white and purple of the Suffrage colors.
+
+Cousin Patty wore a little knot of yellow ribbon when Porter met her at
+the station.
+
+Porter was not inclined to welcome any cousin of Roger Poole's with
+open arms.  But he knew his duty to Mary's guests.  He had offered his
+car, and had insisted that Mary should make use of it.
+
+"For Heaven's sake, don't make me utterly miserable by refusing to let
+me do anything for you, Mary," he had said, when she had protested.
+"It is the only pleasure I have."
+
+Cousin Patty, in spite of Porter's preconceived prejudices, made at
+once a place for herself.  She gave him her little bag, and with a sigh
+of such infinite relief, her eyes like a confiding child's, that he
+laughed and bent down to her.
+
+"Mary Ballard is in my car outside.  I didn't want her to get into this
+crowd."
+
+Cousin Patty shuddered.  "Crowd!  I've never seen anything like--the
+people.  I didn't know there were so many in the world.  You see, I've
+never been far away from home.  And they kept pouring in from all the
+stations, and when I reached here and stood on the steps of the
+Pullman, and saw the masses streaming in ail directions, I felt
+faint--but the conductor pointed out the way to go, and then I saw
+your--lovely head."
+
+She said it so sincerely that Porter laughed.
+
+"Miss Carew," he said, "I believe you mean it."
+
+"Mean what?"
+
+"That it's a lovely head."
+
+"It is."  The dark eyes were shining.  "You were so tall that I could
+see you above the people, and Roger had described how you would look.
+Mary Ballard had said you would surely be here to meet me, and now--oh,
+I'm really in Washington!"
+
+If she had said, "I'm really in Paradise," it could not have expressed
+more supreme bliss.
+
+"I never expected to be here," Cousin Patty went on to explain, as they
+crossed the concourse, and Porter guided her through the crowd.  "I
+never expected it.  And now Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard has promised
+to show me everything."
+
+Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard, indeed!
+
+"Miss Ballard," he said, stiffly, "is taking a week off from her work.
+And she is going to devote it to sightseeing with you."
+
+"Yes, Roger told me.  Is that Mary smiling from that big car?  Oh, Mary
+Ballard, I knew you'd be just--like this."
+
+Well, nobody could resist Cousin Patty.  There was that in her charming
+voice, in her vivid personality which set her apart from other
+middle-aged and well-bred women of her type.
+
+Porter made a wide sweep to take in the Capitol and the Library; then
+he flew up the Avenue, disfigured now by the stands from which people
+were to view the parade.
+
+But Cousin Patty's eyes went beyond the stand to the tall straight
+shaft of the Monument in the distance, and when they passed the White
+House, she simply settled back in her seat and sighed.
+
+"To think that, after all these years, there'll be a gentleman and a
+scholar to live there."
+
+"There have been other scholars--and gentlemen," Mary reminded her.
+
+"Of course, my dear.  But this is different.  You see, in our section
+of the country a Republican is just a--Republican.  And a Democrat is
+a--gentleman."
+
+Mary's eyes were dancing.  "Cousin Patty," she said, "may I call you
+Cousin Patty?  What will you do when women vote?  Will the women who
+are Republicans be ladies?"
+
+"Oh, now you are laughing at me," Cousin Patty said, helplessly.
+
+Mary gave Cousin Patty the suite next to Aunt Isabelle's, and the two
+gentle ladies smiled and kissed in the fashion of their time, and
+became friends at once.
+
+When Cousin Patty had unpacked her bag, and had put all of her nice
+little belongings away, she tripped across the threshold of the door
+between the two rooms, to talk to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Mary said that we should be going to the theater to-night with Mr.
+Bigelow.  You must tell me what to wear, please.  You see I've been out
+of the world so long."
+
+"But you are more of it than I," Aunt Isabelle reminded her.
+
+Cousin Patty, in her pretty wrapper, sat down in a rocking-chair
+comfortably to discuss it.  "What do you mean?"
+
+"Mary has been telling me how far ahead of me your thoughts have flown.
+You're taking up all the new questions, and you're a successful woman
+of business.  I have envied you ever since I heard about the wedding
+cake."
+
+"It's a good business," said Cousin Patty, "and I can do it at home.  I
+couldn't have gone out in the world to make my fight for a living.  I
+can defy men in theory; but I'm really Southern and feminine--if you
+know what that means," she laughed happily.  "Of course I never let
+them know it, not even Roger."
+
+And now Mary came in, lovely in her white dinner gown.
+
+"Oh," she accused them, "you aren't ready."
+
+Cousin Patty rose.  "I wanted to know what to wear, and we've talked an
+hour, and haven't said a word about it."
+
+"Don't bother," Mary said; "there'll be just four of us."
+
+"But I want to bother.  Roger helped me to plan my things.  He
+remembered every single dress you wore while he was here."
+
+"Really?"  The look which Roger had loved was creeping into Mary's
+clear eyes.  "Really, Cousin Patty?"
+
+"Yes.  He drew a sketch of your velvet wrap with the fur, and I made
+mine like it, only I put a frill in place of the fur."  She trotted
+into her room and brought it back for Mary's inspection.  "Is it all
+right?" she asked, anxiously, as she slipped it on, and craned her neck
+in front of Aunt Isabelle's long mirror to see the sweep of the folds.
+
+"It is perfect; and to think he should remember."
+
+Cousin Patty gave her a swift glance.  "That isn't all he has
+remembered," she said, succinctly.
+
+It developed when they went down for dinner that Roger had ordered a
+box of flowers for them--purple violets for Aunt Isabelle and Cousin
+Patty, white violets for Mary.
+
+"How lovely," Mary said, bending over the box of sweetness.  "I am
+perfectly sure no one ever sent me white violets before."
+
+There were other flowers--orchids from Porter.
+
+"And now--which will you wear?" demanded sprightly Cousin Patty, an
+undercurrent of anxiety in her tone.
+
+Mary wore the violets, and Porter gloomed all through the play.
+
+"So my orchids weren't good enough," he said, as she sat beside him on
+their way to the hotel where they were to have supper.
+
+"They were lovely, Porter."
+
+"But you liked the violets better?  Who sent them, Mary?"
+
+"Don't ask in that tone."
+
+"You don't want to tell me."
+
+"It isn't that--it's your manner."  She broke off to say pleadingly,
+"Don't let us quarrel over it.  Let me forget for to-night that there's
+any discord in the world--any work--any worry.  Let me be Contrary
+Mary--happy, care-free, until it all begins over again in the morning."
+
+Very softly she said it, and there were tears in her voice.  He glanced
+down at her in surprise.  "Is that the way life looks to you--you poor
+little thing?"
+
+"Yes, and when you are cross, you make it harder."
+
+Thus, woman-like, she put him in the wrong, and the question of violets
+vs. orchids was shelved.
+
+Presently, in the great red dining-room, Porter was ordering things for
+Cousin Patty's delectation of which she had never heard.  Her enjoyment
+of the novelty of it all was refreshing.  She tasted and ate and looked
+about her as frankly as a happy child, yet never, with it all, lost her
+little air of serene dignity, which set her apart from the flaming,
+flaring type of femininity which abounds in such places.
+
+The great spectacle of the crowded rooms made a deep impression on
+Cousin Patty.  To her this was no gathering of people who were eating
+too much and drinking too much, and who were taking from the night the
+hours which should have been given to sleep.  To her it
+was--fairy-land; all of the women were lovely, all of the men
+celebrities--and the gold of the lights, the pink of the azaleas which
+were everywhere in pots, the murmur of voices, the sweet insistence of
+the music in the balcony, the trail of laughter over it all--these were
+magical things, which might disappear at any moment, and leave her
+among her boxes of wedding cake, after the clock struck twelve.
+
+But it did not disappear, and she went home happy and too tired to talk.
+
+At breakfast the next morning, Mary announced their programme for the
+day.
+
+"Delilah has telephoned that she wants us to have lunch with her at the
+Capitol.  Her father is in Congress, Cousin Patty, and they will show
+us everything worth seeing.  Then we'll go for a ride and have tea
+somewhere, and the General and Leila have asked us for dinner.  Shall
+you be too tired?"
+
+"Tired?"  Cousin Patty's laugh trilled like the song of a bird.  "I
+feel as if I were on wings."
+
+Cousin Patty trod the steps of the historic Capitol with awe.  To her
+these halls of legislation were sacred to the memory of Henry Clay and
+of Daniel Webster.  Every congressman was a Personage--and many a
+simple man, torn between his desire to serve his constituents, and his
+need to placate the big interests of his state, would have been touched
+by the faith of this little Southern lady in his integrity.
+
+"A man couldn't walk through here, with the statues of great men
+confronting him, and the pictures of other great men looking down on
+him, and the shades of those who have gone before him haunting the
+shadows and whispering from the galleries, without feeling that he was
+uplifted by their influence," she whispered to Mary, as from the
+Member's Gallery she gazed down at the languid gentlemen who lounged in
+their seats and listened with blank faces to one of their number who
+was speaking against time.
+
+Colin Quale, who lunched with them, was delighted with her.
+
+"She is an example of what I've been trying to show you," he said to
+Delilah.  "She is so well bred that she absolutely lacks
+self-consciousness, and she is so clear-minded that you can't muddy her
+thoughts with scandals of this naughty world.  She is a type worthy of
+your study."
+
+"Colin," Delilah questioned, with a funny little smile, "is this a
+'back to grandma' movement that you are planning for me?"
+
+The pale little man flickered his blond lashes, but his face was grave.
+
+"No," he said, "but I want you to be abreast of the times.  There's
+going to be a reaction from this reign of the bizarre.  We've gone long
+enough to harems and odalisques for our styles and our manners and
+presently we are going to see the blossoming of old-fashioned beauty."
+
+"And do you think the old manners and morals will come?"
+
+He shrugged.  "Who knows?  We can only hope."
+
+It was to Colin that Cousin Patty spoke confidingly of her admiration
+of Delilah.  "She's beautiful," she said.  "Mary says that you plan her
+dresses.  I never thought that a man could do such things until Roger
+took such an interest."
+
+"Men of to-day take an interest," Colin said.  "Woman's dress is one
+branch of art.  It is worthy of a man's best powers because it adds to
+the beauty of the world."
+
+"That's the funny part of it," Cousin Patty ventured; "women are taking
+up men's work, and men are taking up women's--it is all topsy turvy."
+
+The little artist pondered.  "Perhaps in the end they'll understand
+each other better."
+
+"Do you think they will?"
+
+"Yes.  The woman who does a man's work learns to know what fighting
+means.  The man who makes a study of feminine things begins to see back
+of what has seemed mere frivolity and love of admiration a desire for
+harmony and beauty, and self-expression.  Some day women will come back
+to simplicity and to the home, because they will have learned things
+from men and will have taught things to men, and by mutual
+understanding each will choose the best."
+
+Cousin Patty was inspired by the thought.  "I never heard any one put
+it that way before."
+
+"Perhaps not--but I have seen much of the world--and of men--and of
+women."
+
+"Yet all women are not alike."
+
+"No."  His eyes swept the table.  "You three--Miss Ballard, Miss
+Jeliffe--how far apart--yet you're all women--all, I may say, awakened
+women--refusing to follow the straight and narrow path of the old
+ideal.  Isn't it so?"
+
+"Yes.  I'm in business--none of our women has ever been in business.
+Mary won't marry for a home--yet all of her women have, consciously or
+unconsciously, married for a home.  And Miss Jeliffe I don't know well
+enough to judge.  But I fancy she'll blaze a way for herself."
+
+His eyes rested on Delilah.  "She has blazed a way," he said, slowly;
+"she's a most remarkable woman."
+
+Delilah, looking up, caught his glance and smiled.
+
+"Are they in love with each other?" Cousin Patty asked Mary that night.
+
+Mary laughed.  "Delilah's a will-o'-the-wisp; who knows?"
+
+With their days filled, there was little time for intimacy or
+confidential talks between Mary and Cousin Patty.  And since Mary would
+not ask questions about Roger, and since Cousin Patty seemed to have
+certain reserves in his direction, it was only meager information which
+trickled out; and with this Mary was forced to be content.
+
+Grace marched in the Suffrage Parade, and they applauded her from their
+seats on the Treasury stand.  Aunt Frances, who sat with them, was
+filled with indignation.
+
+"To think that _my_ daughter----"
+
+Cousin Patty threw down the gauntlet: "Why not your daughter, Mrs.
+Clendenning?"
+
+"Because the women of our family have always been--different."
+
+"So have the women of my family," calmly, "but that's no reason why we
+should expect to stand still.  None of the women of my family ever made
+wedding cake for a living.  But that isn't any reason why I should
+starve, is it?"
+
+Aunt Frances shifted the argument.  "But to march--on the street."
+
+"That's their way of expressing themselves.  Men march--and have
+marched since the beginning.  Sometimes their marching doesn't mean
+anything, and sometimes it does.  And I'm inclined," said Cousin Patty
+with an emphatic nod of her head, "to think that this marching means a
+great deal."
+
+On and on they came, these women who marched for a Cause, heads up,
+eyes shining.  There had been something to bear at the other end of the
+line where the crowd had pressed in upon them, and there had been no
+adequate police protection, but they were ready for martyrdom, if need
+be, perhaps, some of them would even welcome it.
+
+But Grace was no fanatic.  She met them afterward, and told of her
+experience gleefully.
+
+"You should have been with me, Mary," she said.
+
+Porter rose in his wrath.  "What has bewitched you women?" he demanded.
+"Do you all believe in it?"
+
+And now Leila piped, "I don't want to march.  I don't want to do the
+things that men do.  I want to have a nice little house, and cook and
+sew, and take care of somebody."
+
+They all laughed.  But Porter surveyed Leila with satisfaction.
+
+"Barry's a lucky fellow," he said.
+
+"Oh, Porter," Mary reproached him, as he helped her down from her high
+seat on the stand.
+
+"Well, he is.  Leila couldn't keep her nice little house any better
+than you, Mary.  But the thing is that she _wants_ to keep it for
+Barry.  And you--you want to march on the street--and laugh--at love."
+
+She surveyed him coldly.  "That shows just how much you understand me,"
+she said, and turned her back on him and accepted an invitation to ride
+home in the Jeliffes' car.
+
+On the day of the Inauguration, the same party had seats on the stand
+opposite the one in front of the White House from which the President
+reviewed the troops.
+
+And it was upon the President that Cousin Patty riveted her attention.
+To be sure her little feet beat time to the music, and she flushed and
+glowed as the soldiers swept by, and the horses danced, and the people
+cheered.  But above and beyond all these things was the sight of the
+man, who in her eyes represented the resurrection of the South--the man
+who should sway it back to its old level in the affairs of the nation.
+
+"I couldn't have dreamed," she emphasized, as she talked it over that
+night with Mary, "of anything so satisfying as his smile.  I shall
+always think of him as smiling out in that quiet way of his at the
+people."
+
+Mary had a vision of another Inauguration and of another President who
+had smiled--a President who had captured the hearts of his countrymen
+as perhaps this scholar never would.  It was at the shrine of that
+strenuous and smiling President that Mary still worshiped.  But they
+were both great men--it was for the future to tell which would live
+longest in the hearts of the people.
+
+The two women were in Cousin Patty's room.  They were too excited to
+sleep, for the events of the day had been stimulating.  Cousin Patty
+had suggested that Mary should get into something comfortable, and come
+back and talk.  And Mary had come, in a flowing blue gown with her fair
+hair in shining braids.  They were alone together for the first time
+since Cousin Patty's arrival.  It was a moment for which Mary had
+waited eagerly, yet now that it had come to her, she hardly knew how to
+begin.
+
+But when she spoke, it was with an impulsive reaching out of her hands
+to the older woman.
+
+"Cousin Patty, tell me about Roger Poole."
+
+Cousin Patty hesitated, then asked a question, almost sharply, "My
+dear, why did you fail him?"
+
+The color flooded Mary's face.  "Fail him?" she faltered.
+
+"Yes.  When he first came to me, there were your letters.  He used to
+read bits of them aloud, and I could see inspiration in them for him.
+Then he stopped reading them to me, and they seemed to bring heaviness
+with them--I can't tell you how unhappy he was until he began to make
+his work fill his life.  Do you mind telling me what made the change in
+you, my dear?"
+
+Mary gazed into the fire, the blood still in her face.
+
+"Cousin Patty, did you know his wife?"
+
+"Yes.  Is it because of her, Mary?"
+
+"Yes.  After Roger went away, I saw her picture.  Colin had painted it.
+And, Cousin Patty, it seemed the face of such a little--saint."
+
+"Yet Roger told you his story?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And you didn't believe him?"
+
+"Oh, I don't know what to believe."
+
+"I see," but Cousin Patty's manner was remote.
+
+Mary slipped down to the stool at Cousin Patty's feet, and brought her
+clear eyes to the level of the little lady's.  "Dear Cousin Patty," she
+implored, "if you only know how I _want_ to believe in Roger Poole."
+
+Cousin Patty melted.  "My dear," she said with decision, "I'm going to
+tell you everything."
+
+And now woman's heart spoke to woman's heart.  "I visited them in the
+first year of their marriage.  I wanted to love his wife, and at first
+she seemed charming.  But I hadn't been there a week before I was
+puzzling over her.  She was made of different clay from Roger.  In the
+intimacy of that home I discovered that she wasn't--a lady--not in our
+nice old-fashioned sense of good manners, and good morals.  She said
+things that you and I couldn't say, and she did things.  I felt the
+catastrophe in the air long before it came.  But I couldn't warn Roger.
+I just had to let him find out.  I wasn't there when the blow fell; but
+I'll tell you this, that Roger may have been a quixotic idiot in the
+eyes of the world, but if he failed it was because he was a dreamer,
+and an idealist, not a coward and a shirk."  Her eyes were blazing.
+"Oh, if you could hear what some people said of him, Mary."
+
+Mary could fancy what they had said.
+
+"Oh, Cousin Patty, Cousin Patty," she cried, "Do you think he will ever
+forgive me?  I have let such people talk to me, and I have listened!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+_In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreams._
+
+
+March, which brings to the North sharp winds and gray days, brings to
+the sand-hill country its season of greatest beauty.
+
+Straight up from the unpromising soil springs the green--the pines bud
+and blossom, everywhere there is the delicate tracery of pale leafage,
+there is the white of dogwood, the pink of peach trees and of apple
+bloom, and again the white of cherry trees and of bridal bush.  There
+are amethystine vistas, and emerald vistas, and vistas of rose and
+saffron--the cardinals burn with a red flame in the magnolias, the
+mocking-birds sing in the moonlight.
+
+It was through the awakened world that Roger drove one Sunday to preach
+to his people.
+
+He did not call it preaching.  As yet his humility gave it no such
+important name.  He simply went into the sand-hills and talked to those
+who were eager to hear.  Beginning with the boy, he had found that
+these thirsty souls drank at any spring.  The boys listened breathless
+to his tales of chivalry, the men to his tales of what other men had
+achieved, the women were reached by stories of what their children
+might be, and the children rose to his bait of fairy books and of
+colored pictures.
+
+Gradually he had gone beyond the tales of chivalry and the achievements
+of men.  Gradually he had brought them up and up.  Other men had
+preached to them, but their preaching had not been linked with lessons
+of living.  Others had cried, "Repent," but not one of them had laid
+emphasis on the fact that repentance was evidenced by the life which
+followed.
+
+But Roger stood among them, his young face grave, his wonderful voice
+persuasive, and told them what it meant to be--saved.  Planting hope
+first in their hearts, he led them toward the Christ-ideal.  Manhood,
+he said, at its best was godlike; one must have purity, energy,
+education, growth.
+
+And they, who listened, began to see that it was a spiritual as well as
+practical thing to set their houses in order, to plant and to till and
+to make the soil produce.  They saw in the future a community which was
+orderly and law-abiding, they saw their children brought out of the
+bondage of ignorance and into the freedom of knowledge.  And they saw
+more than that--they saw the Vision, faintly at first, but with
+ever-increasing clearness.
+
+It was a wonderful task which Roger had set for himself, and he threw
+himself into his work with flaming energy.  He hired a buggy and a
+little fat horse, and spent some of his nights _en route_ in the houses
+of his friends along the way; other nights--and these were the ones he
+liked best--he slept under the pines.  With John Ballard's old Bible
+under his arm, and his prayer-book in his pocket, he went forth each
+week, and always he found a congregation ready and waiting.
+
+Over the stretches of that barren country they came to hear him,
+sailing in their schooner-wagons toward the harbor of the hope which he
+brought to them.
+
+When he had preached from his pulpit, he had talked to men and women of
+culture and he had spent much of his time in polishing a phrase, or in
+rounding out a sentence.  But now he spent his time in search of the
+clear words which would carry his--message.
+
+For Mary had said that every man who preached must have a message.
+
+Mary!
+
+How far she had receded from him.  When he thought of her now it was
+with a sense of overwhelming loss.  She had chosen to withdraw herself
+from him.  In every letter he had seen signs of it--and he could not
+protest.  No man in his position could say to a woman, "I will not let
+you go."  He had nothing to offer her but his life in the pines, a life
+that could not mean much to such a woman.
+
+But it meant much to himself.  Gradually he had come to see that love
+alone could never have brought to him what his work was bringing.  He
+had a sense of freedom such as one must have whose shackles have been
+struck off.  He began to know now what Mary had meant when she had
+said, "I feel as if I were flying through the world on strong wings."
+He, too, felt as if he were flying, and as it his wings were carrying
+him up and up beyond any heights to which he had hitherto soared.
+
+He slept that night in one of the rare groves of old pines.  He made a
+couch of the brown needles and threw a rug over them.  The air was soft
+and heavy with resinous perfume.  As he lay there in the stillness, the
+pines stretched above him like the arches of some great cathedral.  His
+text came to him, "Come thou south wind and blow upon my garden."  It
+was a simple people to whom he would talk on the morrow, but these
+things they could understand--the winds of heaven, and the stars, and
+the little foxes that could spoil the grapes.
+
+When he woke there was a mocking-bird singing.  He had gone to sleep
+obsessed by his sermon, uplifted.  He woke with a sense of
+loneliness--a great longing for human help and understanding--a longing
+to look once more into Mary Ballard's clear eyes and to draw strength
+from the source which had once inspired him.
+
+John Ballard's Bible lay on the rug beside him.  He opened it, and the
+leaves fell apart at a page where a rose had once been pressed.  The
+rose was dead now, and had been laid away carefully, lest it should be
+lost.  But the impress was still there, as the memory of Mary's frank
+friendliness was still in his mind.
+
+It was a long time before he closed the book.  But at last he sighed
+and rose from his couch.  It was inevitable, this drifting apart.  Fate
+would hold for Mary some brilliant future.  As for him, he must go on
+with his work alone.
+
+Yet he realized, even in that moment of renunciation, that it was a
+wonderful thing that he could at last go on alone.  A year ago he had
+needed all of Mary's strength to spur him to the effort, all of her
+belief in him.  Now with his heart still crying out for her, needing
+her, he could still go on alone!
+
+He drew a long breath, and looked up through the singing tree-tops to
+the bit of sky above.  He stood there for a long time, silent, looking
+up into the shining sky.
+
+At ten o'clock when he entered the circle of young pines, his
+congregation was ready for him, sitting on the rough seats which the
+men had fashioned, their eager faces welcoming him, their eyes lighted.
+
+The children whom he had taught led in the singing of the simple old
+hymns, and Roger read a prayer.
+
+Then he talked.  He withheld nothing of the poetry of his subject; and
+they rose to his eloquence.  And when light began to fill a man's eyes
+or tears to fill a woman's--Roger knew that the work of the soul was
+well begun.
+
+Afterward he went among them, becoming one of them in friendliness and
+sympathy, but set apart and consecrated by the wisdom which made him
+their leader.
+
+Among a group of men he spoke of politics.  "There's the new
+President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington.  His
+administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."
+
+Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus
+he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into
+activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.
+
+But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.
+
+They were such lovely little gardens now--with violets blooming in
+their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths.  Every bit of
+bloom spoke to him of Mary.  Not for one moment had she lost her
+interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,
+to have interest in any other of his affairs.
+
+Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale.  But
+to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood.  The day
+seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of
+the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.
+
+He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
+knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
+them breathless.  For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
+sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.
+
+Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
+did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
+was found--for he had made it a little lamb--helpless and bleating, and
+wanting very much its mother.
+
+The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
+with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.
+
+Later he spoke to Roger Poole.  "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
+said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me--yit."
+
+"Find yourself," said Roger.
+
+The man stared.
+
+"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
+that the children have made.  Can you match them?"
+
+"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
+the man.
+
+"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.
+
+The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point.  "Flowers for the
+children--crops for men--I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
+what to do with it.  Let's try to make things grow."
+
+"Us?  You mean you and me, parson?"
+
+"Yes.  And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
+soul."  Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.
+
+And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
+in the back of his eyes.
+
+"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
+shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
+through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
+somethin' in me that's bound to grow."
+
+In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
+his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.
+
+It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
+seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence.  The little lady was
+still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
+more when the rush was over.
+
+At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters.  There
+was one on top from Mary Ballard.
+
+Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house.  It
+contained only a scribbled line--but it set his pulses bounding.
+
+
+"DEAR ROGER POOLE:
+
+"I want to be friends again.  Such friends as we were in the Tower
+Rooms.  I know I don't deserve it--but--please.
+
+"MARY BALLARD."
+
+
+It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
+merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
+chorus of the universe.  It seemed an astounding thing that she should
+have written thus to him.  He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
+repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
+believe that such happiness could be his.  Yet she had written it; that
+she wanted to be--his friend.
+
+At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship.  But as he sat
+down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
+since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
+to him than friend.
+
+And why not?  Why shouldn't he dream?  Mary was not like other women.
+She looked above and beyond the little things.  Might not a man offer
+her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
+Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
+love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
+in the sand-hills bloom?
+
+And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here
+beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
+perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
+scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
+pine--with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.
+
+He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the
+sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain
+luxuries of cushions and rugs.  He saw her with him in deep still
+groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,
+meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness.  He
+saw--oh, dream of dreams--he saw a little white church among the
+sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not
+heard before Whittington rang them all for him.  Later, perhaps, there
+might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden--and Mary
+in the garden.
+
+So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,
+needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and
+space toward the goal of happiness.
+
+He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.
+
+"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said.  "A telegraf
+done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."
+
+She handed it to him, and watched him anxiously as he opened it.
+
+It was from Cousin Patty.
+
+"Mary has had sad news of Barry.  We need you.  Can you come?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+_In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets._
+
+
+It was when Little-Lovely Leila was choosing certain gowns for her trip
+abroad that she had almost given away her secret to Delilah.
+
+"I want a yellow one," she had remarked, "with a primrose hat, like I
+wore when Barry and I----"  She stopped, blushing furiously.
+
+"When you and Barry what?" demanded Delilah.
+
+Leila having started to say, "When Barry and I ran away to be married,"
+stumbled over a substitute, "Well, I wore a yellow gown--when--when----"
+
+"Not when he proposed, duckie.  That was the day at Fort Myer.  I knew
+it the minute I came out and saw your face; and then that telephone
+message about the picture.  Were you really jealous when you found it
+on my table?"
+
+"Dreadfully."  Leila breathed freely once more.  The subject of the
+primrose gown was shelved safely.
+
+"You needn't have been.  All the world knew that Barry was yours."
+
+"And he's mine now," Leila laughed; "and I am to see him in--May."
+
+In the days which followed she was a very busy little Leila.  On every
+pretty garment that she made or bought, she embroidered in fine silk a
+wreath of primroses.  It was her own delicious secret, this adopting of
+her bridal color.  Other brides might be married in white, but she had
+been different--her gown had been the color of the great gold moon that
+had lighted their way.  What a wedding journey it had been--and how she
+and Barry would laugh over it in the years to come!
+
+For the tragedy which had weighed so heavily began now to seem like a
+happy comedy.  In a few weeks she would see Barry, in a few weeks all
+the world would know that she was his wife!
+
+So she packed her fragrant boxes--so she embroidered, and sang, and
+dreamed.
+
+Barry had written that he was "making good"; and that when she came he
+would tell Gordon.  And the General should go on to Germany, and he and
+Leila would have their honeymoon trip.
+
+"You must decide where we shall go," he had said, and Leila had planned
+joyously.
+
+"Dad and I motored once into Scotland, and we stopped at a little town
+for tea.  Such a queer little story-book town, Barry, with funny houses
+and with the streets so narrow that the people leaned out of their
+windows and gossiped over our heads, and I am sure they could have
+shaken hands across.  There wasn't even room for our car to turn
+around, and we had to go on and on until we came to the edge of the
+town, and there was the dearest inn.  We stopped and stayed that
+night--and the linen all smelled of lavender, and there was a sweet
+dumpling of a landlady, and old-fashioned flowers in a trim little
+garden--and all the hills beyond and a lake.  Let's go there, Barry; it
+will be beautiful."
+
+They planned, too, to go into lodgings afterward in London.
+
+The thought of lodgings gave Leila a thrill.  She hunted out her fat
+little volume of Martin Chuzzlewit and gloated over Ruth Pinch and her
+beef-steak pie.  She added two or three captivating aprons to the
+contents of the fragrant boxes.  She even bought a cook-book, and it
+was with a sigh that she laid the cook-book away when Barry wrote that
+in such lodgings as he would choose the landlady would serve their
+meals in the sitting-room.  And this plan would give Leila more time to
+see the sights of London!
+
+But what cared Little-Lovely Leila for seeing sights?  Anybody could
+see sights--any dreary and dried-up fossil, any crabbed and cranky old
+maid--the Tower and Westminster Abbey were for those who had nothing
+better to do.  As for herself, her horizon just now was bounded by
+primrose wreaths and fragrant boxes, and the promise of seeing Barry in
+May!
+
+But fate, which has strange things in store for all of us, had this in
+store for little Leila, that she was not to see Barry in May, and the
+reason that she was not to see him was Jerry Tuckerman.
+
+Meeting Mary in the street one day early in February, Jerry had said,
+"I am going to run over to London this week.  Shall I take your best to
+Barry?"
+
+Mary's eyes had met his squarely.  "Be sure you take _your_ best,
+Jerry," she had said.
+
+He had laughed his defiance.  "Barry's all right--but you've got to
+give him a little rope, Mary."
+
+When he had left her, Mary had walked on slowly, her heart filled with
+foreboding.  Barry was not like Jerry.  Jerry, coarse of fiber, lacking
+temperament, would probably come to middle age safely--he would never
+be called upon to pay the piper as Barry would for dancing to the tune
+of the follies of youth.
+
+She wrote to Gordon, warning him.  "Keep Barry busy," she said.  "Jerry
+told me that he intended to have 'the time of his young life'--and he
+will want Barry to share it."
+
+Gordon smiled over the letter.  "Poor Mary," he told Constance; "she
+has carried Barry for so long on her shoulders, and she can't realize
+that he is at last learning to stand alone."
+
+But Constance did not smile.  "We never could bear Jerry Tuckerman; he
+always made Barry do things."
+
+"Nobody can make me do things when I don't want to do them," said
+Gordon comfortably and priggishly, "and Barry must learn that he can't
+put the blame on anybody's shoulders but his own."
+
+Constance sighed.  She did not quite share Gordon's sense of security.
+Barry was different.  He was a dear, and trying so hard; but Jerry had
+always had some power to sway him from his best, a sinister
+inexplicable influence.
+
+Jerry, arriving, hung around Barry for several days, tempting him, like
+the villain in the play.
+
+But Barry refused to be tempted.  He was busy--and he had just had a
+letter from Leila.
+
+"I simply can't run around town with you, Tuckerman," he explained.
+"Holding down a job in an office like this isn't like holding down a
+government job."
+
+"So they've put your nose to the grindstone?" Jerry grinned as he said
+it, and Barry flushed.  "I like it, Tuckerman; there's something ahead,
+and Gordon has me slated for a promotion."
+
+But what did a promotion mean to Jerry's millions?  And Barry was good
+company, and anyhow--oh, he couldn't see Ballard doing a steady stunt
+like this.
+
+"Motor into Scotland with me next week," he insisted; "get a week off,
+and I'll pick up a gay party.  It's a bit early, but we'll stop in the
+big towns."
+
+Barry shook his head.
+
+"Leila and the General are coming over in May--she wants to take that
+trip--and, anyhow, I can't get away."
+
+"Oh, well, wait and take your nice little ride with Leila," Jerry said,
+good-naturedly enough, "but don't tie yourself too soon to a woman's
+apron string, Ballard--wait till you've had your fling."
+
+But Barry didn't want a fling.  He, too, was dreaming.  On
+half-holidays and Sundays he haunted neighborhoods where there were
+rooms to let.  And when one day he chanced on a sunshiny suite where a
+pot of primroses bloomed in the window, he lingered and looked.
+
+"If they're empty a month from now I'll take them," he said.
+
+"A guinea down and I'll keep them for you," was the smiling response of
+the pleasant landlady.
+
+So Barry blushingly paid the guinea, and began to buy little things to
+make the rooms beautiful--a bamboo basket for flowers--a Sheffield
+tray--a quaint tea-caddy--an antique footstool for Leila's little feet.
+
+Yet there were moments in the midst of his elation when some chill
+breath of fear touched him, and it was in one of these moods that he
+wrote out of his heart to his little bride.
+
+"Sometimes, when I think of you, sweetheart, I realize how little there
+is in me which is deserving of that which you are giving me.  When your
+letters come, I read them and think and think about them.  And the
+thing I think is this: Am I going to be able all my life to live up to
+your expectations?  Don't expect too much, dear heart.  I wonder if I
+am more cowardly about facing life than other men.  Now and then things
+seem to loom up in front of me--great shadows which block my way--and I
+grow afraid that I can't push them out of your path and mine.  And if I
+should not push them, what then?  Would they engulf you, and should I
+be to blame?"
+
+Mary found Leila puzzling over this letter.  "It doesn't sound like
+Barry," she said, in a little frightened voice.  "May I read it to you,
+Mary?"
+
+Mary had stopped in for tea on her way home from the office.  But the
+tea waited.
+
+"Barry is usually so--hopeful," Leila said, when she had finished;
+"somehow I can't help--worrying."
+
+Mary was worried.  She knew these moods.  Barry had them when he was
+fighting "blue devils."  She was afraid--haunted by the thought of
+Jerry.  She tried to speak cheerfully.
+
+"You'll be going over soon," she said, "and then all the world will be
+bright to him."
+
+Leila hesitated.  "I wish," she faltered, "that I could be with him now
+to help him--fight."
+
+Mary gave her a startled glance.  Their eyes met.
+
+"Leila," Mary said, with a little gasp, "who told you?"
+
+"Barry"--the tea was forgotten--"before--before he went away."  The
+vision was upon her of that moment when he had knelt at her feet on
+their bridal night.
+
+Haltingly, she spoke of her lover's weakness.  "I've wanted to ask you,
+Mary, and when this letter came, I just had to ask.  If you think it
+would be better--if we were married, if I could make a home for him."
+
+"It wouldn't be better for you."
+
+"I don't want to think about myself," Leila said, passionately;
+"everybody thinks about me.  It is Barry I want to think of, Mary."
+
+Mary patted the flushed cheek.  "Barry is a fortunate boy," she said.
+Then, with hesitation, "Leila, when you knew, did it make a difference?"
+
+"Difference?"
+
+"In your feeling for Barry?"
+
+And now the child eyes were woman eyes.  "Yes," she said, "it made a
+difference.  But the difference was this--that I loved him more.  I
+don't know whether I can explain it so that you will understand, Mary.
+But then you aren't like me.  You've always been so wonderful, like
+Barry.  But you see I've never been wonderful.  I've always been just a
+little silly thing, pretty enough for people to like, and childish
+enough for everybody to pet, and because I was pretty and little and
+childish, nobody seemed to think that I could be anything else.  And
+for a long time I didn't dream that Barry was in love with me.  I just
+knew that I--cared.  But it was the kind of caring that didn't expect
+much in return.  And when Barry said that I was the only woman in the
+world for him--I had the feeling that it was a pleasant dream, and
+that--that some day I'd wake up and find that he had made a mistake and
+that he should have chosen a princess instead of just a little
+goosie-girl.  But when I knew that Barry had to fight, everything
+changed.  I knew that I could really help.  More than the princess,
+perhaps, because you see she might not have cared to bother--and she
+might not have loved him enough to--overlook."
+
+"You blessed child," Mary said with a catch in her voice, "you mustn't
+be so humble--it's enough to spoil any man."
+
+"Not Barry," Leila said; "he loves me because I am so loving."
+
+Oh, wisdom of the little heart.  There might be men who could love for
+the sake of conquest; there might be men who could meet coldness with
+ardor, and affection with indifference.  Barry was not one of these.
+The sacred fire which burned in the heart of his sweet mistress had
+lighted the flame in his own.  It was Leila's love as well as Leila
+that he wanted.  And she knew and treasured the knowledge.
+
+It was when Mary left that she said, with forced lightness, "You'll be
+going soon, and what a summer you will have together."
+
+It was on Leila's lips to cry, "But I want our life together to begin
+now.  What's one summer in a whole life of love?"
+
+But she did not voice her cry.  She kissed Mary and smiled wistfully,
+and went back into the dusky room to dream of Barry--Barry her young
+husband, with whom she had walked in her little yellow gown over the
+hills and far away.
+
+And while she dreamed, Barry, in Jerry Tuckerman's big blue car, was
+flying over other hills, and farther away from Leila than he had ever
+been in his life.
+
+It was as Mary had feared.  Barry's strength in his first resistance of
+Jerry's importunities had made him over-confident, so that when, at the
+end of the month, Jerry had returned and had pressed his claim, Barry
+had consented to lunch with him.
+
+At luncheon they met Jerry's crowd and Barry drank just one glass of
+golden sparkling stuff.
+
+But the one glass was enough to fire his blood--enough to change the
+aspect of the world--enough to make him reckless, boisterous--enough to
+make him consent to join at once Jerry's party in a motor trip to
+Scotland.
+
+In that moment the world of work receded, the world of which Leila was
+the center receded--the life which had to do with lodgings and
+primroses and Sheffield trays was faint and blurred to his mental
+vision.  But this life, which had to do with laughter and care-free
+joyousness and forgetfulness, this was the life for a man who was a man.
+
+Jerry was saying, "There will be the three of us and the chauffeur--and
+we will take things in hampers and things in boxes, and things in
+bottles."
+
+Barry laughed.  It was not a loud laugh, just a light boyish chuckle,
+and as he rose and stood with his hand resting on the table, many eyes
+were turned upon him.  He was a handsome young American, his beautiful
+blond head held high.  "You mustn't expect," he said, still with that
+light laughter, "that I am going to bring any bottles.  Only thing I've
+got is a tea-caddy.  Honest--a tea-caddy, and a Sheffield tray."
+
+Then some memory assailing him, he faltered, "And a little foolish
+footstool."
+
+"Sit down," Jerry said.  There was something strangely appealing in
+that gay young figure with the shining eyes.  In spite of himself,
+Jerry felt uncomfortable.  "Sit down," he said.
+
+So Barry sat down, and laughed at nothing, and talked about nothing,
+and found it all very enchanting.
+
+He packed his bag and left a note for Gordon and when he piled finally
+with the others into Jerry's car, he was ready to shout with them that
+it was a long lane which had no turning, and that work was a bore and
+would always be.
+
+And so the ride which Leila had planned for herself and her young
+husband became a wild ride, in which these young knights of the road
+pursued fantastic adventures, with memories blank, and with consciences
+soothed.
+
+For days they rode, stopping at various inns along the way, startling
+the staid folk of the villages by their laughter late into the night;
+making boon companions in an hour, and leaving them with tears, to
+forget them at the first turn of the corner.
+
+Written as old romance, such things seem of the golden age; looked upon
+in the light of Barry's future and of Leila's, they were tragedy
+unspeakable.
+
+And now the car went up and up, to come down again to some stretch of
+sand, with the mountains looming black against one horizon, the sea a
+band of sapphire against another.
+
+And so, fate drawing them nearer and nearer, they came at last to the
+little town which Leila had described in her letter.
+
+Going in, some one spoke the name, and Barry had a stab of memory.  Who
+had talked of narrow streets, across which people gossiped--and shook
+hands?--who had spoken of having tea in that little shop?
+
+He asked the question of his companions, "Who called this a story-book
+town?"
+
+They laughed at him.  "You dreamed it."
+
+Steadily his mind began to work.  He fumbled in his pocket, and found
+Leila's letter.
+
+Searching through it, he discovered the name of the little place.  "I
+didn't dream it," he announced triumphantly; "my wife told me."
+
+"Wake up," Jerry said, "and thank the gods that you are single."
+
+But Barry stood swaying.  "My little wife told me--_Leila_!"
+
+With a sudden cry, he lurched forward.  His arm struck the arm of the
+driver beside him.  The car gave a sudden turn.  The streets were
+narrow--so narrow that one might almost shake hands across them!
+
+And there was a crash!
+
+Jerry was not hurt, nor the other adventurers.  The chauffeur was
+stunned.  But Barry was crumpled up against the stone steps of one of
+the funny little houses, and lay there with Leila's letter all red
+under him.
+
+
+It was Porter and Mary who told Leila.  The General had begged them to
+do it.  "I can't," he had said, pitifully.  "I've faced guns, but I
+can't face the hurt in my darling's eyes."
+
+So Mary's arms were around her when she whispered to the child-wife
+that Barry was--dead.
+
+Porter had faltered first something about an accident--that the doctors
+were--afraid.
+
+Leila, shaking, had looked from one to the other.  "I must go to him,"
+she had cried.  "You see, I am his wife.  I have a right to go."
+
+"_His wife_?"  Of all things they had not expected this.
+
+"Yes, we have been married a year--we ran away."
+
+"When, dear?"
+
+"Last March--to Rockville--and--and we were going to tell everybody the
+next day--and then Barry lost his place--and we couldn't."
+
+Oh, poor little widow, poor little child!  Mary drew her close.
+"Leila, Leila," she whispered, "dear little sister, dear little girl,
+we must love and comfort each other."
+
+And then Leila knew.
+
+But they did not tell her how it had happened.  The details of that
+last ride the woman who loved him need never know.  Barry was to be her
+hero always.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+_In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion._
+
+
+It was Cousin Patty who had suggested sending for Roger.  "He can look
+after me, Mary.  If you won't let me go home, I don't want you to have
+the thought of me to burden you."
+
+"You couldn't be a burden.  And I don't know what Aunt Isabelle and I
+should have done without you."
+
+She began to cry weakly, and Cousin Patty, comforting her, said in her
+heart, "There is no one but Roger who can say the right things to her."
+
+As yet no one had said the right things.  It seemed to Mary that she
+carried a wound too deep for healing.  Gordon had softened the truth as
+much as possible, but he could not hide it from her.  She knew that
+Barry, her boy Barry, had gone out of the world defeated.
+
+It was Roger who helped her.
+
+He came first upon her as she sat alone in the garden by the fountain.
+It was a sultry spring day, and heavy clouds hung low on the horizon.
+Thin and frail in her black frock, she rose to meet him, the ghost of
+the girl who had once bloomed like a flower in her scarlet wrap.
+
+Roger took her hands in his.
+
+"You poor little child," he said; "you poor little child."
+
+She did not cry.  She simply looked up at him, frozen-white.  "Oh, it
+wasn't fair for him to go--that way.  He tried so hard.  He tried so
+hard."
+
+"I know.  And it was a great fight he put up, you must remember that."
+
+"But to fail--at the last."
+
+"You mustn't think of that.  Somehow I can see Barry still fighting,
+and winning.  One of a glorious company."
+
+"A glorious company--Barry?"
+
+"Yes.  Why not?  We are judged by the fight we make, not by our
+victory."
+
+She drew a long breath.  "Everybody else has been sorry.   Nobody else
+could seem to understand."
+
+"Perhaps I understand," he said, "because I know what it is to
+fight--and fail."
+
+"But you are winning now."  The color swept into her pale cheeks.
+"Cousin Patty told me."
+
+"Yes.  You showed me the way--I have tried to follow it."
+
+"Oh, how ignorant I was," she cried, tempestuously, "when I talked to
+you of life.  I thought I knew everything."
+
+"You knew enough to help me.  If I can help you a little now it will be
+only a fair exchange."
+
+It helped her merely to have him there.  "You spoke of Barry's still
+fighting and winning.  Do you think that one goes on fighting?"
+
+"Why not?  It would seem only just that he should conquer.  There are
+men who are not tempted, whose goodness is negative.  Character is made
+by resistance against evil, not by lack of knowledge of it.  And the
+judgments of men are not those which count in the final verdict."
+
+He said more than this, breaking the bonds of her despair.  Others had
+pitied Barry.  Roger defended him.  She began to think of her brother,
+not as her imagination had pictured him, flung into utter darkness, but
+with his head up--his beautiful fair head, a shining sword in his hand,
+fighting against the powers of evil--stumbling, falling, rising again.
+
+He saw her relax as she listened, and his love for her taught him what
+to say.
+
+And as he talked, her eyes noted the change in him.
+
+This was not the Roger Poole of the Tower Rooms.  This was a Roger
+Poole who had found himself.  She could see it in his manner--she could
+hear it in his voice, it shone from his eyes.  Here was a man who
+feared nothing, not even the whispers that had once had power to hurt.
+
+The clouds were sweeping toward them, hiding the blue; the wind whirled
+the dead leaves from the paths, and stirred the budding branches of the
+hundred-leaved bush--touched with its first hint of tender green.  The
+mist from the fountain was like a veil which hid the mocking face of
+the bronze boy.
+
+But Mary and Roger had no eyes for these warnings; each was famished
+for the other, and this meeting gave to Mary, at least, a sense of
+renewed life.
+
+She spoke of her future.  "Constance and Gordon want me to come to
+them.  But I hate to give up my work.  I don't want to be discontented.
+Yet I dread the loneliness here.  Did you ever think I should be such a
+coward?"
+
+"You are not a coward--you are a woman--wanting the things that belong
+to you."
+
+She sat very still.  "I wonder--what are the things which belong to a
+woman?"
+
+"Love--a home--happiness."
+
+"And you think I want these things?"
+
+"I know it."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"Because you have tried work--and it has failed.  You have tried
+independence--and it has failed.  You have tried freedom, and have
+found it bondage."
+
+He was once more in the grip of the dream which he had dreamed as he
+had sat with Mary's letter in his hand on Cousin Patty's porch.  If she
+would come to him there would be no more loneliness.  His love should
+fill her life, and there would be, too, the love of his people.  She
+should win hearts while he won souls.  If only she would care enough to
+come.
+
+It was the fear that she might not care which suddenly gripped him.
+Surely this was not the moment to press his demands upon her--when
+sorrow lay so heavily on her heart.
+
+So blind, and cruel in his blindness, he held back the words which rose
+to his lips.
+
+"Some day life will bring the things which belong to you," he said at
+last.  "I pray God that it may bring them to you some day."
+
+A line of Browning's came into her mind, and rang like a knell--"Some
+day, meaning no day."
+
+She shivered and rose.  "We must go in; there's rain in those clouds,
+and wind."
+
+He rose also and stood looking down at her.  Her eyes came up to his,
+her clear eyes, shadowed now by pain.  What he might have said to her
+in another moment would have saved both of them much weariness and
+heartache.  But he was not to say it, for the storm was upon them
+driving them before it, slamming doors, banging shutters in the big
+house as they came to it--a miniature cyclone, in its swift descent.
+
+And as if he had ridden in on the wings of the storm came Porter
+Bigelow, his red mane blown like a flame back from his face, his long
+coat flapping.
+
+He stopped short at the sight of Roger.
+
+"Hello, Poole," he said; "when did you arrive?"
+
+"This morning."
+
+They shook hands, but there was no sign of a welcome in Porter's face.
+
+"Pretty stiff storm," he remarked, as the three of them stood by the
+drawing-room window, looking out.
+
+The rain came in shining sheets--the lightning blazed--the thunder
+boomed.
+
+"It is the first thunder-storm of the season," Mary said.  "It will
+wake up the world."
+
+"In the South," Roger said, "the world is awake.  You should see our
+gardens."
+
+"I wish I could; Cousin Patty asked me to come."
+
+"Will you?" eagerly.
+
+"There's my work."
+
+"Take a holiday, and let me show you the pines."
+
+Porter broke in impatiently, almost insolently.
+
+"Mary needs companionship, not pines.  I think she should go to
+Constance.  Leila and the General will go over as they planned in May,
+and the Jeliffes----"
+
+"There's more than a month before May--which she could spend with us."
+
+Porter stared.  This was a new Roger, an insistent, demanding Roger.
+He spoke coldly.  "Constance wants Mary at once.  I don't think we
+should say anything to dissuade her.  Aunt Isabelle and I can take her
+over."
+
+And now Mary's head went up.
+
+"I haven't decided, Porter."  She was fighting for freedom.
+
+"But Constance needs you, Mary--and you need her."
+
+"Oh, no," Mary said, brokenly, "Constance doesn't need me.  She has
+Gordon and the baby.  Nobody needs me--now."
+
+Roger saw the quick blood flame in Porter's face.  He felt it flame in
+his own.  And just for one fleeting moment, over the bowed head of the
+girl, the challenging eyes of the two men met.
+
+Aunt Frances, who came over with Grace in the afternoon, went home in a
+high state of indignation.
+
+"Why Patty Carew and Roger Poole should take possession of Mary in that
+fashion," she said to her daughter at dinner, "is beyond me.  They
+don't belong there, and it would have been in better taste to leave at
+such a time."
+
+"Mary begged Cousin Patty to stay," Grace said, "and as for Roger
+Poole, he has simply made Mary over.  She has been like a stone image
+until to-day."
+
+"I don't see any difference," Aunt Frances said.  "What do you mean,
+Grace?"
+
+"Oh, her eyes and the color in her cheeks, and the way she does her
+hair."
+
+"The way she does her hair?"  Aunt Frances laid down her fork and
+stared.
+
+"Yes.  Since the awful news came, Mary has seemed to lose interest in
+everything.  She adored Barry, and she's never going to get over
+it--not entirely.  I miss the old Mary."  Grace stopped to steady her
+voice.  "But when I went up with her to her room to talk to her while
+she dressed for dinner, she put up her hair in that pretty boyish way
+that she used to wear it, and it was all for Roger Poole."
+
+"Why not for Porter?"
+
+"Because she hasn't cared how she looked, and Porter has been there
+every day.  He has been there too often."
+
+"Do you think Roger will try to get her to marry him?"
+
+"Who knows?  He's dead in love with her.  But he looks upon her as too
+rare for the life he leads.  That's the trouble with men.  They are
+afraid they can't make the right woman happy, so they ask the wrong
+one.  Now if we women could do the proposing----"
+
+"Grace!"
+
+"Don't look at me in that shocked way, mother.  I am just voicing what
+every woman knows--that the men who ask her aren't the ones she would
+have picked out if she had had the choice.  And Mary will wait and
+weary, and Roger will worship and hang back, and in the meantime Porter
+will demand and demand and demand--and in the end he'll probably get
+what he wants."
+
+Aunt Frances beamed.  "I hope so."
+
+"But Mary will be miserable."
+
+"Then she'll be very silly."
+
+Grace sighed.  "No woman is silly who asks for the best.  Mother, I'd
+love to marry a man with a mission--I'd like to go to the South Sea
+Islands and teach the natives, or to Darkest Africa--or to China, or
+India, anywhere away from a life in which there's nothing but bridge,
+and shopping, and deadly dullness."
+
+She was in earnest now, and her mother saw it.
+
+"I don't see how you can say such things," she quavered.  "I don't see
+how you can talk of going to such impossible places--away from me."
+
+Grace cut short the plaintive wail.
+
+"Of course I have no idea of going," she said, "but such a life would
+furnish its own adventures; I wouldn't have to manufacture them."
+
+It was with the wish to make life something more than it was that Grace
+asked Roger the next day, "Is there any work here in town like yours
+for the boy--you see Mary has told me about him."
+
+He smiled.  "Everywhere there are boys and girls, unawakened--if only
+people would look for them; and with your knowledge of languages you
+could do great things with the little foreigners--turn a bunch of them
+into good citizens, for example."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Reach them first through pictures and music--then through their
+patriotism.  Don't let them learn politics and plunder on the streets;
+let them find their place in this land from you, and let them hear from
+you of the God of our fathers."
+
+Grace felt his magnetism.  "I wish you could go through the streets of
+New York saying such things."
+
+He shook his head.  "I shall not come to the city.  My place is found,
+and I shall stay there; but I have faith to believe that there will yet
+be a Voice to speak, to which the world shall listen."
+
+"Soon?"
+
+"Everything points to an awakening.  People are beginning to say, 'Tell
+us,' where a few years ago they said, 'There is nothing to tell.'"
+
+"I see--it will be wonderful when it comes--I'm going to try to do my
+little bit, and be ready, and when Mary comes back, she shall help me."
+
+His eyes went to where Mary sat between Porter and Aunt Frances.
+
+"She may never come back."
+
+"She must be made to come."
+
+"Who could make her?"
+
+"The man she loves."
+
+She flashed a sparkling glance at him, and rose.
+
+"Come, mother," she said, "it is time to go."  Then, as she gave Roger
+her hand, she smiled.  "Faint heart," she murmured, "don't you know
+that a man like you, if he tries, can conquer the--world?"
+
+She left Roger with his pulses beating madly.  What did she mean?  Did
+she think that--Mary----?  He went up to the Tower Rooms to dress for
+dinner, with his mind in a whirl.  The windows were open and the warm
+air blew in.  Looking out, he could see in the distance the shining
+river--like a silver ribbon, and the white shaft of the Monument, which
+seemed to touch the sky.  But he saw more than that; he saw his future
+and Mary's; again he dreamed his dreams.
+
+If he had hoped for a moment alone that night with the lady of his
+heart, he was doomed to disappointment, for Leila and her father came
+to dinner.  Leila was very still and sweet in her widow's black, the
+General brooding over her.  And again Roger had the sense that in this
+house of sorrow there was no place for love-making.  For the joy that
+might be his--he must wait; even though he wearied in the waiting.
+
+And it was while he waited that he lunched one day with Porter Bigelow.
+The invitation had surprised him, and he had felt vaguely troubled and
+oppressed by the thought that back of it might be some motive as yet
+unrevealed.  But there had been nothing to do but accept, and at one
+o'clock he was at the University Club.
+
+For a time they spoke of indifferent things, then Porter said, bluntly,
+"I am not going to beat about the bush, Poole.  I've asked you here to
+talk about Mary Ballard."
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"You're in love with her?"
+
+"Yes--but I question your right to play inquisitor."
+
+"I haven't any right, except my interest in Mary.  But I claim that my
+interest justifies the inquisition."
+
+"Perhaps."
+
+"You want to marry her?"
+
+Roger shifted his position, and leaned forward, meeting Porter's stormy
+eyes squarely.  "Again I question your right, Bigelow."
+
+[Illustration: "Again I question your right."]
+
+"It isn't a question of right now, Poole, and you know it.  You're in
+love with her, I'm in love with her.  We both want her.  In days past
+men settled such things with swords or pistols.  You and I are
+civilized and modern; but it's got to be settled just the same."
+
+"Miss Ballard will have to settle it--not you or I."
+
+"She can't settle it.  Mary is a dreamer.  You capture her with your
+imagination--with your talk of your work--and your people and the
+little gardens, and all that.  And she sees it as you want her to see
+it, not as it really is.  But I know the deadly dullness, the
+awfulness.  Why, man, I spent a winter down there, at one of the
+resorts and now and then we rode through the country.  It was a desert,
+I tell you, Poole, a desert; it is no place for a woman."
+
+"You saw nothing but the charred pines and the sand.  I could show you
+other things."
+
+"What, for example?"
+
+"I could show you an awakened people.  I could show you a community
+throwing off the shackles of idleness and ignorance.  I could show you
+men once tied to old traditions, meeting with eagerness the new ideals.
+There is nothing in the world more wonderful than such an awakening,
+Bigelow.  But one must have the Vision to grasp it.  And faith to
+believe it.  It is the dreamers, thank God, who see beyond to-day into
+to-morrow.  I haven't wealth or position to offer Mary, but I can offer
+her a world which needs her.  And if I know her, as I think I do, she
+will care more for my world than for yours."
+
+He did not raise his voice, but Porter felt the force of his restrained
+eloquence, as he knew Mary would feel it if it were applied to her.
+
+And now he shot his poisoned dart.
+
+"At first, perhaps.  But when it came to building a home, there'd be
+always the stigma of your past, and she's a proud little thing, Poole."
+
+Roger winced.  "My past is buried.  It is my future of which we must
+speak."
+
+"You can't bury a past.  You haven't even a pulpit to preach from."
+
+Roger pushed back his chair.  "I am tempted to wish," his voice was
+grim, "that we were not quite so civilized, not quite so modern.
+Pistols or swords would seem an easier way than this."
+
+"I'm fighting for Mary.  You've got to let go.  None of her friends
+want it--Gordon would never consent."
+
+It seemed to Roger that all the whispers which had assailed him in the
+days of long ago were rushing back upon him in a roaring wave of sound.
+
+He rose, white and shaken.  "Do you call it victory when one man stabs
+another through the heart?  Well, if this is your victory, Bigelow--you
+are welcome to it."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+_In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life; and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas._
+
+
+Contrary Mary was Contrary Mary no longer.  Since Roger had gone,
+taking Cousin Patty with him--gone without the word to her for which
+she had waited, she had submitted to Gordon's plans for her, and to
+Aunt Frances' and Porter's execution of them.
+
+Only to Grace did she show any signs of her old rebellion.
+
+"Did you ever think that I should be beaten, Grace?" she said,
+pitifully.  "Is that the way with all women?  Do we reach out for so
+much, and then take what we can get?"
+
+Grace pondered.  "Things tie us down, but we don't have to stay
+tied--and I am beginning to see a way out for myself, Mary."
+
+She told of her talk with Roger and of her own strenuous desire to
+help; but she did not tell what she had said to him at the last.  There
+was something here which she could not understand.  Mary persistently
+refused to talk about him.  Even now she shifted the topic.
+
+"I don't want to strive," she said, "not even for the sake of others.
+I want to rest for a thousand years--and sleep for the next thousand."
+
+And this from Mary, buoyant, vivid Mary, with her almost boyish
+strength and energy.
+
+The big house was to be closed.  Aunt Isabelle would go with Mary.
+Susan Jenks and Pittiwitz would be domiciled in the kitchen wing, with
+a friend of Susan's to keep them company.
+
+Mary, wandering on the last day through the Tower Rooms, thought of the
+night when Roger Poole had first come to them.  And now he would never
+come again.
+
+She had not been able to understand his abrupt departure.  Yet there
+had been nothing to resent--he had been infinitely kind, sympathetic,
+strong, helpful.  If she missed something from his manner which had
+been there on the day of his arrival, she told herself that perhaps it
+had not been there, that her own joy in seeing him had made her imagine
+a like joy in his attitude toward her.
+
+Cousin Patty had cried over her, kissed her, and protested that she
+could not bear to go.
+
+"But Roger thinks it is best, my dear.  He is needed at home."
+
+It seemed plausible that he might be needed, yet in the back of Mary's
+mind was a doubt.  What had sent him away?  She was haunted by the
+feeling that some sinister influence had separated them.
+
+A pitiful little figure in black, she made the tour of the empty rooms
+with Pittiwitz mewing plaintively at her heels.  The little cat, with
+the instinct of her kind, felt the atmosphere of change.  Old rugs on
+which she had sprawled were rolled up and reeking with moth balls.  The
+little white bed, on which she had napped unlawfully, was stripped to
+the mattress.  The cushions on which she had curled were packed
+away--the fire was out--the hearth desolate.
+
+Susan Jenks, coming up, found Mary with the little cat in her lap.
+
+"Oh, honey child, don't cry like that."
+
+"Oh, Susan, Susan, it will never be the same again, never the same."
+
+And now once more in the garden, the roses bloomed on the
+hundred-leaved bush, once more the fountain sang, and the little bronze
+boy laughed through a veil of mist--but there were no gay voices in the
+garden, no lovers on the stone seat.  Susan Jenks kept the paths trim
+and watered the flowers, and Pittiwitz chased butterflies or stretched
+herself in the sun, lazily content, forgetting, gradually, those who
+had for a time made up her world.
+
+But Mary, on the high seas, could not forget what she had left behind.
+It was not Susan Jenks, it was not Pittiwitz, it was not the garden
+which called her back, although these had their part in her regrets--it
+was the old life, the life which had belonged to her childhood and her
+girlhood the life which had been lived with her mother and father and
+Constance--and Barry.
+
+As she lay listless in her deck chair, she could see nothing in her
+future which would match the happiness of the past.  The days lived in
+the old house had never been days of great prosperity; her father had,
+indeed, often been weighed down with care--there had been times of
+heavy anxieties--but, there had been between them all the bond of deep
+affection, of mutual dependence.
+
+In Gordon's home there would be splendors far beyond any she had known,
+there would be ease and luxury, and these would be shared with her
+freely and ungrudgingly, yet to a nature like Mary Ballard's such
+things meant little.  The real things in life to her were love and
+achievement; all else seemed stale and unprofitable.
+
+Of course there would be Constance and the baby.  On the hope of seeing
+them she lived.  Yet in a sense Gordon and the baby stood between
+herself and Constance--they absorbed her sister, satisfied her, so that
+Mary's love was only one drop added to a full cup.
+
+It was while she pondered over her future that Mary was moved to write
+to Roger Poole.  The mere putting of her thoughts on paper would ease
+her loneliness.  She would say what she felt, frankly, freely, and when
+the little letters were finished, if her mood changed she need not send
+them.
+
+So she began to scribble, setting down each day the thoughts which
+clamored for expression.
+
+Porter complained that now she was always writing.
+
+"I'd rather write than talk," Mary said, wearily; and at last he let
+the matter drop.
+
+
+_In Mid-Sea._
+
+DEAR FRIEND O' MINE:
+
+You asked me to write, and you will think that I have more than kept my
+promise when you get this journal of our days at sea.  But it has
+seemed to me that you might enjoy it all, just as if you were with us,
+instead of down among your sand-hills, with your sad children (are they
+really sad now?) and Cousin Patty's wedding cakes.
+
+There's quite a party of us.  Leila and her father and the Jeliffes and
+Colin kept to their original plan of coming in May, and we decided it
+would be best to cross at the same time, so there's Aunt Frances and
+Grace and Aunt Isabelle, and Porter--and me--ten of us.  If you and
+Cousin Patty were here, you'd round out a dozen.  I wish you were here.
+How Cousin Patty would enjoy it--with her lovely enthusiasms, and her
+interest in everything.  Do give her much love.  I shall write to her
+when I reach London, for I know she will be traveling with us in
+spirit; she said she was going to live in England by proxy this summer,
+and I shall help her all I can by sending pictures, and you must tell
+her the books to read.
+
+To think that I am on my way to the London of your Dick Whittington!  I
+call him yours because you made me really see him for the first time.
+
+"_There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone._"
+
+And I am to hear all the bells, and to see the things I have always
+longed to see!  Yet--and I haven't told this to any one but you, Roger
+Poole, the thought doesn't bring one little bit of gladness--it isn't
+London that I want, or England.  I want my garden and my old big house,
+and things as they used to be.
+
+But I am sailing fast away from it--the old life into the new!
+
+So far we have had fair weather.  It is always best to speak of the
+weather first, isn't it?--so that we can have our minds free for other
+things.  It hasn't been at all rough; even Leila, who isn't a good
+sailor, has been able to stay on deck and people are so much interested
+in her.  She seems such a child for her widow's black.  Oh, what
+children they were, my boy Barry and his little wife, and yet they were
+man and woman, too.  Leila has been letting me see some of his letters;
+he showed her a side which he never revealed to me, but I am not
+jealous.  I am only glad that, for her, my boy Barry became a man.
+
+But I am going to try to keep the sadness out of my scribbles to you,
+only now and then it will creep in, and you must forgive it, because
+you see it isn't easy to think that we are all here who loved him, and
+he, who loved so much to be with us, is somewhere--oh, where is he,
+Roger Poole, in that vast infinity which stretches out and out, beyond
+the sea, beyond the sky, into eternity?
+
+All day I have been lying in my deck chair, and have let the world go
+by.  It is clear and cool, and the sea rises up like a wall of
+sapphire.  Last night we seemed to plough through a field of gold.  The
+world is really a lovely place, the big outside world, but it isn't the
+outside world which makes our happiness, it is the world within us, and
+when the heart is tired----
+
+But now I must talk of some one else besides my self.
+
+Shall I tell you of Delilah?  She attracts much attention, with her
+gracious manner and her wonderful clothes.  All the people are crazy
+about her.  They think she is English, and a duchess at least.  Colin
+is as pleased as Punch at the success he has made of her, and he just
+stands aside and watches her, and flickers his pale lashes and smiles.
+Last night she danced some of the new dances, and her tango is as
+stately as a minuet.  She and Porter danced together--and everybody
+stopped to look at them.  The gossip is going the rounds that they are
+engaged.  Oh, I wish they were--I wish they were!  It would be good for
+him to meet his match.  Delilah could hold her own; she wouldn't let
+him insist and manage until she was positively mesmerized, as I am.
+Delilah has such a queenly way of ruling her world.  All the men on
+board trail after her.  But she makes most of them worship from afar.
+As for the women, she picks the best, instinctively, and the ice which
+seems congealed around the heart of the average Britisher melts before
+her charm, so that already she is playing bridge with the proper
+people, and having tea with the inner circle.  Even with these she
+seems to assume an air of remoteness, which seems to set her apart--and
+it is this air, Grace says, which conquers.
+
+When people aren't coupling Porter's name with Delilah's, they are
+coupling it with Grace's.  You should see our "red-headed woodpeckers,"
+as poor Barry used to call them.  When they promenade, Grace wears a
+bit of a black hat that shows all of her glorious hair, and Porter's
+cap can't hide his crown of glory.  At first people thought they were
+brother and sister, but since it is known that they aren't I can see
+that everybody is puzzled.
+
+It is all like a play passing in front of me.  There are charming
+English people--charming Americans and some uncharming ones.  Oh, why
+don't we, who began in such simplicity, try to remain a simple people?
+It just seems to me sometimes as if everybody on board is trying to
+show off.  The rich ones are trying to display their money, and the
+intellectual ones their brains.  Is there any real difference between
+the new-rich and the new-cultured, Roger Poole?  One tells about her
+three motor cars, and the other tells about her three degrees.  It is
+all tiresome.  The world is a place to have things and to know things,
+but if the having them and knowing them makes them so important that
+you have to talk about them all the time there's something wrong.
+
+That's the charm of Grace.  She has money and position--and I've told
+you how she simply carried off all the honors at college; she paints
+wonderfully, and her opinions are all worth listening to.  But she
+doesn't throw her knowledge at you.  She is interested in people, and
+puts books where they belong.  She is really the only one whom I
+welcome without any misgivings, except darling Aunt Isabelle.  The
+others when they come to talk to me, are either too sad or too
+energetic.
+
+Doesn't all that sound as if I were a selfish little pig?  Well, some
+day I shall enjoy them all--but now--my heart is crying--and Leila,
+with her little white face, hurts.  Mrs. Barry Ballard!  Shall I ever
+get used to hearing her called that?  It seems to set her apart from
+little Leila Dick, so that when I hear people speak to her, I am always
+startled and surprised.
+
+And now--what are you doing?  Are you still planting little gardens,
+and talking to your boy--talking to your sad people?  Cousin Patty has
+told me of your letter to your bishop, who was so kind during
+your--trouble--and of his answer--and of your hope that some day you
+may have a little church in the sand-hills, and preach instead of teach.
+
+Surely that would make all of your dreams come true, all of _our_
+dreams, for I have dreamed too--that this might come.
+
+Sometimes as I lie here, I shut my eyes, and I seem to see you in that
+circle of young pines, and I pretend that I am listening; that you are
+saying things to me, as you say them to those poor people in the
+pines--and now and then I can make myself believe that you have really
+spoken, that your voice has reached across the miles.  And so I have
+your little sermons all to myself--out here at sea, with all the blue
+distance between us--but I listen, listen--just the same.
+
+
+_In the Fog._
+
+Out of the sunshine of yesterday came the heavy mists of to-day.  The
+sea slips under us in silver swells.  Everybody is wrapped to the chin,
+and Porter has just stopped to ask me if I want something hot sent up.
+I told him "no," and sent him on to Leila.  I like this still world,
+and the gray ghosts about the deck.  Delilah has just sailed by in a
+beautiful smoke-colored costume--with her inevitable knot of
+heliotrope--a phantom lady, like a lovely dream.
+
+Did I tell you that a very distinguished and much titled gentleman
+wants to marry Delilah, and that he is waiting now for her answer?
+Porter thinks she will say "yes."  But Leila and I don't.  We are sure
+that she will find her fate in Colin.  He dominates her; he dives
+beneath the surface and brings up the real Delilah, not the cool,
+calculating Delilah that we once knew, but the lovely, gracious lady
+that she now is.  It is as if he had put a new soul inside of the
+worldly shell that was once Delilah.  Yet there is never a sign between
+them of anything but good comradeship.  Grace says that Colin is
+following the fashionable policy of watchful waiting--but I'm not sure.
+I fancy that they will both wake up suddenly to what they feel, and
+then it will be quite wonderful to see them.
+
+Porter doesn't believe in the waking-up process.  He says that love is
+a growth.  That people must know each other for years and years, so
+that each can understand the faults and virtues of the other.  But to
+me it seems that love is a flame, illumining everything in a moment.
+
+Porter came while I was writing that--and made me walk with him up and
+down, up and down.  He was afraid I might get chilled.  Of course he
+means to be kind, but I don't like to have him tell me that I must
+"make an effort"--it gives me a sort of Mrs. Dombey feeling.  I don't
+wonder that she just curled up and died to get rid of the trouble of
+living.
+
+I knew while I walked with Porter that people were wondering who I
+was--in my long black coat, with my hair all blown about.  I fancy that
+they won't link my name, sentimentally, with the Knight of the Auburn
+Crest.  Beside Grace and Delilah I look like a little country girl.
+But I don't care--my thick coat is comfortable, and my little soft hat
+stays on my head, which is all one needs, isn't it?  But as I write
+this I wonder where the girl is who used to like pretty clothes.  Do
+you remember the dress I wore at Constance's wedding?  I was thinking
+to-day of it--and of Leila hippity-hopping up the stairs in her one
+pink slipper.  Oh, how far away those days seem--and how strong I
+felt--and how ready I was to face the world, and now I just want to
+crawl into a corner and watch other people live.
+
+Leila is much braver than I.  She takes a little walk every morning
+with her father, and another walk every afternoon with Porter--and she
+is always talking to lonesome people and sick people; and all the while
+she wears a little faint shining smile, like an angel's.  Yet I used to
+be quite scornful of Leila, even while I loved her.  I thought she was
+so sweetly and weakly feminine; yet she is steering her little ship
+through stormy waters, while I have lost my rudder and compass, and all
+the other things that a mariner needs in a time of storm.
+
+
+_Before the storm._
+
+The fog still hangs over us, and we seem to ride on the surface of a
+dead sea.  Last night there was no moon and to-day Aunt Frances has not
+appeared.  Even Delilah seems to feel depressed by the silence and the
+stillness--not a sound but the beat of the engines and the hoarse hoot
+of the horns.  This paper is damp as I write upon it, and blots the
+ink, but--I sha'n't rewrite it, because the blots will make you see me
+sitting here, with drops of moisture clinging to my coat and to my
+little hat, and making my hair curl up in a way that it never does in
+dry weather.
+
+I wonder, if you were here, if you would seem a ghost like all the
+others.  Nothing is real but my thoughts of the things that used to be.
+I can't believe that I am on my way to London, and that I am going to
+live with Constance, and go sightseeing with Aunt Frances and Grace,
+and give up my plans for the--Great Adventure.  Aunt Isabelle sat
+beside me this morning, and we talked about it.  She will stay with
+Aunt Frances and Grace, and we shall see each other every day.  I
+couldn't quite get along at all if it were not for Aunt Isabelle--she
+is such a mother-person, and she doesn't make me feel, as the rest of
+them do, that I must be brave and courageous.  She just pats my hand
+and says, "It's going to be all right, Mary dear--it is going to be all
+right," and presently I begin to feel that it is; she has such a
+fashion of ignoring the troublesome things of this world, and simply
+looking ahead to the next.  She told me once that heaven would mean to
+her, first of all, a place of beautiful sounds--and second it would
+mean freedom.  You see she has always been dominated by Aunt Frances,
+poor thing.
+
+Do you remember how I used to talk of freedom?  But now I'm to be a
+bird in a cage.  It will be a gilded cage, of course.  Even Grace says
+that Constance's home is charming--great lovely rooms and massive
+furniture; and when we begin to go again into society, I am to be
+introduced to lots of grand folk, and perhaps presented.
+
+And I am to forget that I ever worked in a grubby government
+office--indeed I am to forget that I ever worked at all.
+
+And I am to forget all of my dreams.  I am to change from the Mary
+Ballard who wanted to do things to the Mary Ballard who wants them done
+for her.  Perhaps when you see me again I shall be nice and clinging
+and as sweetly feminine as you used to want me to be--Roger Poole.
+
+The mists have cleared, and there's a cloud on the horizon--I can hear
+people saying that it means a storm.  Shall I be afraid?  I wonder.  Do
+you remember the storm that came that day in the garden and drove us
+in?  I wonder if we shall ever be together again in the dear old garden?
+
+
+_After the storm._
+
+Last night the storm waked us.  It was a dreadful storm, with the wind
+booming, and the sea all whipped up into a whirlpool.
+
+But I wasn't frightened, although everybody was awake, and there was a
+feeling that something might happen.  I asked Porter to take me on
+deck, but he said that no one was allowed, and so we just curled up on
+chairs and sofas and waited either for the storm to end or for the ship
+to sink.  If you've ever been in a storm at sea, you know the
+feeling--that the next minute may bring calm and safety, or terror and
+death.
+
+Porter had tucked a rug around me, and I lay there, looking at the
+others, wondering whether if an accident happened Delilah would face
+death as gracefully as she faces everything else.  Leila was very white
+and shivery and clung to her father; it is at such times that she seems
+such a child.
+
+Aunt Frances was fussy and blamed everybody from the captain down to
+Aunt Isabelle--as if they could control the warring elements.  Surely
+it is a case of the "ruling passion."
+
+But while I am writing these things, I am putting off, and putting off
+and putting off the story of what happened after the storm--not because
+I dread to tell it, but because I don't know quite how to tell it.  It
+involves such intimate things--yet it makes all things clear, it makes
+everything so beautifully clear, Roger Poole.
+
+It was after the wind died down a bit that I made Porter take me up on
+deck.  The moon was flying through the ragged clouds, and the water was
+a wild sweep of black and white.  It was all quite spectral and
+terrifying and I shivered.  And then Porter said; "Mary, we'd better go
+down."
+
+And I said, "It wasn't fear that made me shiver, Porter.  It was just
+the thought that living is worse than dying."
+
+He dropped my arm and looked down at me.
+
+"Mary," he said, "what's the matter with you?"
+
+"I don't know," I said.  "It is just that my courage is all gone--I
+can't face things."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I don't know--I've lost my grip, Porter."
+
+And then he asked a question.  "Is it because of Barry, Mary?"
+
+"Some of it."
+
+"And the rest?"
+
+"I can't tell you."
+
+We walked for a long time after that, and I was holding all the time
+tight to his arm--for it wasn't easy to walk with that sea on--when
+suddenly he laid his hand over mine.
+
+"Mary," he said, "I've got to tell you.  I can't keep it back and
+feel--honest.  I don't know whether you want Roger Poole in your
+life--I don't know whether you care.  But I want you to be happy.  And
+it was I who sent him away from you."
+
+And now, Roger Poole, what can I say?  What can _any_ woman say?  I
+only know this, that as I write this the sun shines over a blue sea,
+and that the world is--different.  There are still things in my heart
+which hurt--but there are things, too, which make it sing!
+
+MARY.
+
+
+When Mary Ballard came on deck on the morning after the storm,
+everybody stared.  Where was the girl of yesterday--the frail white
+girl who had moped so listlessly in her chair, scribbling on little
+bits of paper?  Here was a fair young beauty, with her head up, a clear
+light shining in her gray eyes--a faint flush on her cheeks.
+
+Colin Quale, meeting her, flickered his lashes and smiled: "Is this
+what the storm did to you?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"This and this."  He touched his cheeks and his eyes.  "To-day, if I
+painted you, I should have to put pink on my palette--yesterday I
+should have needed only black and white."
+
+Mary smiled back at him.  "Do you interpret things always through the
+medium of your brush?"
+
+"Why not?  Life is just that--a little color more or less, and it all
+depends on the hand of the artist."
+
+"What a wonderful palette He has!"  Her eyes swept the sea and the sky.
+"This morning the world is all gold and blue."
+
+"And yesterday it was gray."
+
+Mary flashed a glance at him.  His voice had changed.  Delilah was
+coming toward them.  "There's material I like to work with," he said,
+"there's something more than paint or canvas--living, breathing beauty."
+
+"He's saying things about you," Mary said, as Delilah joined them.
+
+Delilah, coloring faintly, cast down her eyes.  "I'm afraid of him,
+Mary," she said.
+
+Colin laughed.  "You're not afraid of any one."
+
+"Yes, I am.  You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion.
+You are always reading me like a book."
+
+"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely
+illustrations."
+
+They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious
+eyes.
+
+If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to
+Porter Bigelow it was no miracle.  Nothing could have more completely
+rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.
+
+Her attitude toward him was irreproachable.  She was kinder, indeed,
+than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims
+upon her.  She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for
+something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing
+could ever make up.
+
+So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and
+more and more with Leila--Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed
+him with such sweet and clinging dependence--Leila who hung upon his
+advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to
+help him.
+
+Thus they came in due time to London.  And when Leila and her father
+left for the German baths, Porter went with them.
+
+It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.
+
+"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you.  You never
+could, and you never would, and now you never will."
+
+
+Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby,
+days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual
+grief.  The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of
+them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed,
+winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making
+herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world
+seemed to revolve about her.
+
+And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across
+the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.
+
+It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and
+Gordon.  Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and
+laid it beside her plate.
+
+Gordon finished his breakfast, kissed his wife, and went away.
+Constance, looking over her mail, read bits of news to Mary.  Mary, in
+return, read bits of news to Constance.  But the blue envelope by her
+plate lay untouched, until, catching her sister's eye, she flushed.
+
+"Constance," she said, "it is from Roger Poole."
+
+"Oh, Mary, and was that why Porter went away?"
+
+"Yes."  It came almost defiantly.
+
+For a moment the young matron hesitated, then she held out her arms.
+"Dearest girl," she said, "we want you to be happy."
+
+Mary, with eyes shining, came straight to that loving embrace.
+
+"I am going to be happy," she said, almost breathlessly, "and perhaps
+my way of being happy won't be yours, Con, darling.  But what
+difference does it make, so long as we are both--happy?"
+
+The letter, read at last in the shelter of her own room, was not long.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+Even now I can't quite believe that your letter is true--I have read it
+and reread it--again and again, reading into it each time new meanings,
+new hope.  And to-night it lies on my desk, a precious document,
+tempting me to say things which perhaps I should not say--tempting me
+to plead for that which perhaps I should not ask.
+
+Dear woman--what have I to offer you?  Just a home down here among the
+sand-hills--a little church that will soon stand in a circle of young
+pines, a life of work in a little rectory near the little church--for
+your dreams and mine are to come true, and the little church will be
+built within a year.
+
+Yet, I have a garden.  A garden of souls.  Will you come into it?  And
+make it bloom, as you have made my life bloom?  All that I am you have
+made me.  When I sat in the Tower Rooms hopeless, you gave me hope.
+When I lost faith in myself, it shone in your eyes.  When I saw your
+brave young courage, my courage came back to me.  It was you who told
+me that I had a message to deliver.
+
+And I am delivering the message--and somehow I cannot feel that it is a
+little thing to offer, when I ask you to share in this, my work.
+
+Other men can offer you a castle--other men can give to you a life of
+ease.  I can bring to you a life in which we shall give ourselves to
+each other and to the world.  I can give you love that is equal to any
+man's.  I can give you a future which will make you forget the past.
+
+Not to every woman would I dare offer what I have to give---but you are
+different from other women.  From the night when you first met me
+frankly with your brave young head up and your eyes shining, I have
+known that you were different from the rest--a woman braver and
+stronger, a woman asking more of life than softness.
+
+And now, will you fight with me, shoulder to shoulder?  And win?
+
+Somehow I feel that you will say "Yes."  Is that the right attitude for
+a lover?  But surely I can see a little way into your heart.  Your
+letter let me see.
+
+If I seem over-confident, forgive me.  But I know what I want for
+myself.  I know what I want for you.  I am not the Roger Poole of the
+Tower Rooms, beaten and broken.  I am Roger Poole of the Garden,
+marching triumphantly in tune with the universe.
+
+As I write, I have a vision upon me of a little white house not far
+from the little white church in the circle of young pines--a house with
+orchards sweeping up all pink behind it in April, and with violets in
+the borders of the walk in January, and with roses from May until
+December.
+
+And I can see you in that little house.  I shall see you in it until
+you say something which will destroy that vision.  But you won't
+destroy it.  Surely some day you will hear the mocking-birds sing in
+the moonlight--as I am hearing them, alone, to-night.
+
+I need you, I want you, and I hope that it is not a selfish cry.  For
+your letter has told me that you, too, are wanting--what?  Is it Love,
+Mary dear, and Life?
+
+ROGER.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+_In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight._
+
+
+Sweeping through a country of white sand and of charred trees run hard
+clay highways.  When motor cars from the cities and health resorts
+began to invade the pines, it was found that the old wagon trails were
+inadequate; hence there followed experiments which resulted in
+intersecting orange-colored roads, throughout the desert-like expanse.
+
+It was on a day in April that over the road which led up toward the
+hills there sailed the snowy-white canopy of one of the strange
+land-craft of that region--a schooner-wagon drawn by two fat mules who
+walked at a leisurely but steady pace, seemingly without guidance from
+any hand.
+
+Yet that, beneath the hooded cover, there was a directing power, was
+demonstrated, as the mules turned suddenly from the hot road to a wagon
+path beneath the shelter of the pines.
+
+It was strewn thick with brown needles, and the sharp hoofs of the
+little animals made no sound.  Deeper and deeper they went into the
+wood, until the swinging craft and its clumsy steeds seemed to swim in
+a sea of emerald light.
+
+On and on breasting waves of golden gloom, where the sunlight sifted
+in, to anchor at last in a still space where the great trees sang
+overhead.
+
+Then from beneath the canopy emerged a man in khaki.
+
+He took off his hat, and stood for a moment looking up at the great
+trees, then he called softly, "Mary."
+
+She came to the back of the wagon and he lifted her down.
+
+"This is my cathedral," he said; "it is the place of the biggest pines."
+
+She leaned against him and looked up.  His arm was about her.  She wore
+a thin silk blouse and a white skirt.  Her soft fair hair was blown
+against his cheek.
+
+"Roger," she said, "was there ever such a honeymoon?"
+
+"Was there ever such a woman--such a wife?"
+
+After that they were silent.  There was no need for words.  But
+presently he spread a rug for her, and built their fire, and they had
+their lunch.  The mules ate comfortably in the shade, and rested
+throughout the long hot hours of the afternoon.
+
+Then once more the strange craft sailed on.  On and on over miles of
+orange roadway, passing now and then an orchard, flaunting the
+rose-color of its peach trees against the dun background of sand;
+passing again between drifts of dogwood, which shone like snow beneath
+the slanting rays of the sun--sailing on and on until the sun went
+down.  Then came the shadowy twilight, with the stars coming out in the
+warm dusk--then the moonlight--and the mocking-birds singing.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***
+
+
+******* This file should be named 17938-8.txt or 17938-8.zip *******
+
+
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938
+
+
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
+https://www.gutenberg.org/license).
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
+809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
+business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
+information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
+page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit:
+https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     https://www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
diff --git a/17938-8.zip b/17938-8.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0c6661d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-8.zip
diff --git a/17938-h.zip b/17938-h.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..ba219ae
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h.zip
diff --git a/17938-h/17938-h.htm b/17938-h/17938-h.htm
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..e40165e
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h/17938-h.htm
@@ -0,0 +1,17503 @@
+<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN">
+<html>
+<head>
+<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=ISO-8859-1">
+<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Contrary Mary, by Temple Bailey</title>
+<style type="text/css">
+BODY { color: Black;
+       background: White;
+       margin-right: 10%;
+       margin-left: 10%;
+       font-size: medium;
+       font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;
+       text-align: justify }
+
+P {text-indent: 4% }
+
+P.noindent {text-indent: 0% }
+
+P.poem {text-indent: 0%; margin-left: 10%; font-size: small }
+
+P.letter {font-size: small }
+
+    hr.full { width: 100%;
+             height: 5px; }
+	a:link {color:#0000ff;
+			text-decoration:none; }
+	link {color:#0000ff;
+			text-decoration:none; }
+	a:visited {color:#0000ff;
+			text-decoration:none; }
+	a:hover {color:#ff0000;
+            text-decoration: underline; }
+	pre		{font-size: 75%; }
+</style>
+</head>
+<body>
+<h1 align="center">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Contrary Mary, by Temple Bailey, Illustrated
+by Charles S. Corson</h1>
+<pre>
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre>
+<p>Title: Contrary Mary</p>
+<p>Author: Temple Bailey</p>
+<p>Release Date: March 6, 2006  [eBook #17938]</p>
+<p>Language: English</p>
+<p>Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1</p>
+<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***</p>
+<br><br><center><h3>E-text prepared by Al Haines</h3></center><br><br>
+<hr class="full" noshade>
+<br>
+<br>
+<br>
+<A NAME="img-front"></A>
+<CENTER>
+<IMG SRC="images/img-front.jpg" ALT="She flashed a quick glance at him." BORDER="2" WIDTH="422" HEIGHT="588">
+<H4>
+[Frontispiece: She flashed a quick glance at him.]
+</H4>
+</CENTER>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H1 ALIGN="center">
+CONTRARY MARY
+</H1>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+BY
+</H3>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+TEMPLE BAILEY
+</H2>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+AUTHOR OF
+<BR><BR>
+GLORY OF YOUTH
+</H4>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+ILLUSTRATIONS BY
+<BR><BR>
+CHARLES S. CORSON
+</H4>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H4 ALIGN="center">
+NEW YORK
+<BR><BR>
+GROSSET &amp; DUNLAP
+<BR><BR>
+PUBLISHERS
+</H4>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H5 ALIGN="center">
+COPYRIGHT
+<BR><BR>
+1914 BY
+<BR><BR>
+THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
+</H5>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+First printing, December, 1914<BR>
+Second printing, February, 1915<BR>
+Third printing, March, 1915<BR>
+Fourth printing, March, 1915<BR>
+Fifth printing, April, 1915<BR>
+Sixth printing, July, 1915<BR>
+Seventh printing, November, 1915<BR>
+<BR><BR>
+Contrary Mary
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+<I>To My Sister</I>
+</H3>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+Contents
+</H2>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap01">
+CHAPTER I
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face with Old Friends.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap02">
+CHAPTER II
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason
+for Renting a Gentleman's Library.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap03">
+CHAPTER III
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of this Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances with the Rest.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap04">
+CHAPTER IV
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets that There is Any One Else in the House.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap05">
+CHAPTER V
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice; and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap06">
+CHAPTER VI
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms, and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap07">
+CHAPTER VII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and is
+Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon the
+Stairs.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap08">
+CHAPTER VIII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place; and
+in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap09">
+CHAPTER IX
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress;
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap10">
+CHAPTER X
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap11">
+CHAPTER XI
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap12">
+CHAPTER XII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap13">
+CHAPTER XIII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens; and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap14">
+CHAPTER XIV
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary Writes from the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+from Among the Pines.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap15">
+CHAPTER XV
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which a
+March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap16">
+CHAPTER XVI
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap17">
+CHAPTER XVII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For; and
+in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap18">
+CHAPTER XVIII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World; and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap19">
+CHAPTER XIX
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes, and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap20">
+CHAPTER XX
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap21">
+CHAPTER XXI
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap22">
+CHAPTER XXII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreamt.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap23">
+CHAPTER XXIII
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap24">
+CHAPTER XXIV
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap25">
+CHAPTER XXV
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life, and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#chap26">
+CHAPTER XXVI
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<H2 ALIGN="center">
+Illustrations
+</H2>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#img-front">
+She flashed a quick glance at him . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#img-112">
+"What have I done?"
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#img-240">
+"You don't know what you are doing."
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<H3>
+<A HREF="#img-360">
+"Again I question your right."
+</A>
+</H3>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap01"></A>
+<H1 ALIGN="center">
+Contrary Mary
+</H1>
+
+<BR>
+
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER I
+</H3>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face With Old Friends.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The big house, standing on a high hill which overlooked the city,
+showed in the moonlight the grotesque outlines of a composite
+architecture.  Originally it had been a square substantial edifice of
+Colonial simplicity.  A later and less restrained taste had aimed at a
+castellated effect, and certain peaks and turrets had been added.
+Three of these turrets were excrescences stuck on, evidently, with an
+idea of adornment.  The fourth tower, however, rounded out and enlarged
+a room on the third floor.  This room was one of a suite, and the rooms
+were known as the Tower Rooms, and were held by those who had occupied
+them to be the most desirable in the barn-like building.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To-night the house had taken on an unwonted aspect of festivity.  Its
+spaciousness was checkered by golden-lighted windows.  Delivery wagons
+and automobiles came and went, some discharging loads of deliciousness
+at the back door, others discharging loads of loveliness at the front.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Following in the wake of one of the front door loads of fluttering
+femininity came a somewhat somber pedestrian.  His steps lagged a
+little, so that when the big door opened, he was still at the foot of
+the terrace which led up to it.  He waited until the door was shut
+before he again advanced.  In the glimpse that he thus had of the
+interior, he was aware of a sort of pink effulgence, and in that
+shining light, lapped by it, and borne up, as it were, by it toward the
+wide stairway, he saw slender girls in faint-hued frocks&mdash;a shimmering
+celestial company.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he reached the top of the terrace the door again flew open, and he
+gave a somewhat hesitating reason for his intrusion.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I was told to ask for Miss Ballard&mdash;Miss Mary Ballard."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed that he was expected, and that the guardian of the doorway
+understood the difference between his business and that of the
+celestial beings who had preceded him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was shown into a small room at the left of the entrance.  It was
+somewhat bare, with a few law books and a big old-fashioned desk.  He
+judged that the room might have been put to office uses, but to-night
+the desk was heaped with open boxes, and odd pieces of furniture were
+crowded together, so that there was left only a small oasis of cleared
+space.  On the one chair in this oasis, the somber gentleman seated
+himself.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had a fancy, as he sat there waiting, that neither he nor this room
+were in accord with the things that were going on in the big house.
+Outside of the closed door the radiant guests were still ascending the
+stairway on shining wings of light.  He could hear the music of their
+laughter, and the deeper note of men's voices, rising and growing
+fainter in a sort of transcendent harmony.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut
+quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she
+turned to him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you must forgive me&mdash;I've kept you waiting?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her
+at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of
+Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that.  But,
+being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that
+here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the
+stairs.  Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of
+pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show
+womanliness and warm blood.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Even her dress was different.  It was simple almost to the point of
+plainness.  Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the
+inside of a shell.  Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet
+in low-heeled slippers.  A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the
+waves of thick fair hair.  Her eyes were like the sea in a storm&mdash;deep
+gray with a glint of green.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+These things did not come to him at once.  He was to observe them as
+she made her explanation, and as he followed her to the Tower Rooms.
+But first he had to set himself straight with her, so he said: "I was
+sorry to interrupt you.  But you said&mdash;seven?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  It was the only time that the rooms could be seen.  My sister
+and I occupy them&mdash;and Constance is to be married&mdash;to-night."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This, then, was the reason for the effulgence and the silken ladies.
+It was the reason, too, for the loveliness of her dress.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am going to take you this way."  She preceded him through a narrow
+passage to a flight of steps leading up into the darkness.  "These
+stairs are not often used, but we shall escape the crowds in the other
+hall."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her voice was lost as she made an abrupt turn, but, feeling his way, he
+followed her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Up and up until they came to a third-floor landing, where she stopped
+him to say, "I must be sure no one is here.  Will you wait until I see?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She came back, presently, to announce that the coast was clear, and
+thus they entered the room which had been enlarged and rounded out by
+the fourth tower.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a big room, ceiled and finished in dark oak, The furniture was
+roomy and comfortable and of worn red leather.  A strong square table
+held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade.  There was a fireplace,
+and on the mantel above it a bust or two.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger
+Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth
+and fine leather&mdash;the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.
+As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living,
+breathing collection of a true book-lover&mdash;not a musty, fusty
+aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect.  The
+owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This is the sitting-room," his guide was telling him, "and the bedroom
+and bath open out from it."  She had opened a connecting door.  "This
+room is awfully torn up.  But we have just finished dressing Constance.
+She is down-stairs now in the Sanctum.  We'll pack her trunks to-morrow
+and send them, and then if you should care to take the rooms, we can
+put back the bedroom furniture that father had.  He used this suite,
+and brought his books up after mother died."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He halted on the threshold of that inner room.  If the old house below
+had seemed filled with rosy effulgence, this was the heart of the rose.
+Two small white beds were side by side in an alcove.  Their covers were
+of pink overlaid with lace, and the chintz of the big couch and chairs
+reflected the same enchanting hue.  With all the color, however, there
+was the freshness of simplicity.  Two tall glass candlesticks on the
+dressing table, a few photographs in silver and ivory frames&mdash;these
+were the only ornaments.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet everywhere was lovely confusion&mdash;delicate things were thrown
+half-way into open trunks, filmy fabrics floated from unexpected
+places, small slippers were held by receptacles never designed for
+shoes, radiant hats bloomed in boxes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+On a chair lay a bridesmaid's bunch of roses.  This bunch Mary Ballard
+picked up as she passed, and it was over the top of it that she asked,
+with some diffidence, "Do you think you'd care to take the rooms?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Did he?  Did the Peri outside the gates yearn to enter?  Here within
+his reach was that from which he had been cut off for five years.  Five
+years in boarding-houses and cheap hotels, and now the chance to live
+again&mdash;as he had once lived!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I do want them&mdash;awfully&mdash;but the price named in your letter seems
+ridiculously small&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you see it is all I shall need," she was as blissfully
+unbusinesslike as he.  "I want to add a certain amount to my income, so
+I ask you to pay that," she smiled, and with increasing diffidence
+demanded, "Could you make up your mind&mdash;now?  It is important that I
+should know&mdash;to-night."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She saw the question in his eyes and answered it, "You see&mdash;my family
+have no idea that I am doing this.  If they knew, they wouldn't want me
+to rent the rooms&mdash;but the house is mine&mdash;-I shall do as I please."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She seemed to fling it at him, defiantly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you want me to be accessory to your&mdash;crime."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She gave him a startled glance.  "Oh, do you look at it&mdash;that way?
+Please don't.  Not if you like them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a moment, only, he wavered.  There was something distinctly unusual
+in acquiring a vine and fig tree in this fashion.  But then her
+advertisement had been unusual&mdash;it was that which had attracted him,
+and had piqued his interest so that he had answered it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And the books!  As he looked back into the big room, the rows of
+volumes seemed to smile at him with the faces of old friends.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lonely, longing for a haven after the storms which had beaten him, what
+better could he find than this?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As for the family of Mary Ballard, what had he to do with it?  His
+business was with Mary Ballard herself, with her frank laugh and her
+friendliness&mdash;and her arms full of roses!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I like them so much that I shall consider myself most fortunate to get
+them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, really?"  She hesitated and held out her hand to him.  "You don't
+know how you have helped me out&mdash;you don't know how you have helped
+me&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Again she saw a question in his eyes, but this time she did not answer
+it.  She turned and went into the other room, drawing back the curtains
+of the deep windows of the round tower.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I haven't shown you the best of all," she said.  Beneath them lay the
+lovely city, starred with its golden lights.  From east to west the
+shadowy dimness of the Mall, beyond the shadows, a line of river,
+silver under the moonlight.  A clock tower or two showed yellow faces;
+the great public buildings were clear-cut like cardboard.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger drew a deep breath.  "If there were nothing else," he said, "I
+should take the rooms for this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now from the lower hall came the clamor of voices.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Mary!  Mary!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I must not keep you," he said at once.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Mary!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Poised for flight, she asked, "Can you find your way down alone?  I'll
+go by the front stairs and head them off."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Mary&mdash;&mdash;!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With a last flashing glance she was gone, and as he groped his way down
+through the darkness, it came to him as an amazing revelation that she
+had taken his coming as a thing to be thankful for, and it had been so
+many years since a door had been flung wide to welcome him.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap02"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER II
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason for
+Renting a Gentleman's Library.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+In spite of the fact that Mary Ballard had seemed to Roger Poole like a
+white-winged angel, she was not looked upon by the family as a beauty.
+It was Constance who was the "pretty one," and tonight as she stood in
+her bridal robes, gazing up at her sister who was descending the stairs,
+she was more than pretty.  Her tender face was illumined by an inner
+radiance.  She was two years older than Mary, but more slender, and her
+coloring was more strongly emphasized.  Her eyes were blue and her hair
+was gold, as against the gray-green and dull fairness of Mary's hair.
+She seemed surrounded, too, by a sort of feminine <I>aura</I>, so that one
+knew at a glance that here was a woman who would love her home, her
+husband, her children; who would lean upon masculine protection, and
+suffer from masculine neglect.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of Mary Ballard these things could not be said at once.  In spite of her
+simplicity and frankness, there was about her a baffling atmosphere.  She
+was like a still pool with the depths as yet unsounded, an uncharted
+sea&mdash;with its mystery of undiscovered countries.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The contrast between the sisters had never been more marked than when
+Mary, leaning over the stair-rail, answered the breathless, "Dearest,
+where have you been?" with her calm:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's plenty of time, Constance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And Constance, soothed as always by her sister's tranquillity, repeated
+Mary's words for the benefit of a ponderously anxious Personage in amber
+satin.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's plenty of time, Aunt Frances."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+That Aunt Frances <I>was</I> a Personage was made apparent by certain exterior
+evidences.  One knew it by the set of her fine shoulders, the carriage of
+her head, by the diamond-studded lorgnette, by the string of pearls about
+her neck, by the osprey in her white hair, by the golden buckles on her
+shoes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is five minutes to eight," said Aunt Frances, "and Gordon is waiting
+down-stairs with his best man, the chorus is freezing on the side porch,
+and <I>everybody</I> has arrived.  I don't see <I>why</I> you are waiting&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We are waiting for it to be eight o'clock, Aunt Frances," said Mary.
+"At just eight, I start down in front of Constance, and if you don't
+hurry you and Aunt Isabelle won't be there ahead of me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The amber train slipped and glimmered down the polished steps, and the
+golden buckles gleamed as Mrs. Clendenning, panting a little and with a
+sense of outrage that her nervous anxiety of the preceding moment had
+been for naught, made her way to the drawing-room, where the guests were
+assembled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle followed, gently smiling.  Aunt Isabelle was to Aunt
+Frances as moonlight unto sunlight.  Aunt Frances was married, Aunt
+Isabelle was single; Aunt Frances wore amber, Aunt Isabelle silver gray;
+Aunt Frances held up her head like a queen, Aunt Isabelle dropped hers
+deprecatingly; Aunt Frances' quick ears caught the whispers of admiration
+that followed her, Aunt Isabelle's ears were closed forever to all the
+music of the universe.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+No sooner had the two aunts taken their places to the left of a floral
+bower than there was heard without the chanted wedding chorus, from a
+side door stepped the clergyman and the bridegroom and his best man; then
+from the hall came the little procession with Mary in the lead and
+Constance leaning on the arm of her brother Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were much alike, this brother and sister.  More alike than Mary and
+Constance.  Barry had the same gold in his hair, and blue in his eyes,
+and, while one dared not hint it, in the face of his broad-shouldered
+strength, there was an almost feminine charm in the grace of his manner
+and the languor of his movements.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There were no bridesmaids, except Mary, but four pretty girls held the
+broad white ribbons which marked an aisle down the length of the rooms.
+These girls wore pink with close caps of old lace.  Only one of them had
+dark hair, and it was the dark-haired one, who, standing very still
+throughout the ceremony, with the ribbon caught up to her in lustrous
+festoons, never took her eyes from Barry Ballard's face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And when, after the ceremony, the bride turned to greet her friends, the
+dark-haired girl moved forward to where Barry stood, a little apart from
+the wedding group.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Doesn't it seem strange?" she said to him with quick-drawn breath.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled down at her.  "What?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That a few words should make such a difference?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  A minute ago she belonged to us.  Now she's Gordon's."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And he's taking her to England?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  But not for long.  When he gets the branch office started over
+there, they'll come back, and he'll take his father's place in the
+business here, and let the old man retire."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was not listening.  "Barry," she interrupted, "what will Mary do?
+She can't live here alone&mdash;and she'll miss Constance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Aunt Frances has fixed that," easily; "she wants Mary to shut up the
+house and spend the winter in Nice with herself and Grace&mdash;it's a great
+chance for Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But what about you, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Me?" He shrugged his shoulders and again smiled down at her.  "I'll find
+quarters somewhere, and when I get too lonesome, I'll come over and talk
+to you, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The rich color flooded her cheeks.  "Do come," she said, again with
+quick-drawn breath, then like a child who has secured its coveted
+sugar-plum, she slipped through the crowd, and down into the dining-room,
+where she found Mary taking a last survey.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Hasn't Aunt Frances done things beautifully?" Mary asked; "she insisted
+on it, Leila.  We could never have afforded the orchids and the roses;
+and the ices are charming&mdash;pink hearts with cupids shooting at them with
+silver arrows&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Mary," the dark-haired girl laid her flushed cheek against the arm
+of her taller friend.  "I think weddings are wonderful."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary shook her head.  "I don't," she said after a moment's silence.  "I
+think they're horrid.  I like Gordon Richardson well enough, except when
+I think that he is stealing Constance, and then I hate him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But the bride was coming down, with all the murmuring voices behind her,
+and now the silken ladies were descending the stairs to the dining-room,
+which took up the whole lower west wing of the house and opened out upon
+an old-fashioned garden, which to-night, under a chill October moon,
+showed its rows of box and of formal cedars like sharp shadows against
+the whiteness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Into this garden came, later, Mary.  And behind her Susan Jenks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks was a little woman with gray hair and a coffee-colored skin.
+Being neither black nor white, she partook somewhat of the nature of both
+races.  Back of her African gentleness was an almost Yankee shrewdness,
+and the firm will which now and then degenerated into obstinacy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There ain't no luck in a wedding without rice, Miss Mary.  These paper
+rose-leaf things that you've got in the bags are mighty pretty, but how
+are you going to know that they bring good luck?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Aunt Frances thought they would be charming and foreign, Susan, and they
+look very real, floating off in the air.  You must stand there on the
+upper porch, and give the little bags to the guests."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan ascended the terrace steps complainingly.  "You go right in out of
+the night, Miss Mary," she called back, "an' you with nothin' on your
+bare neck!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, turning, came face to face with Gordon's best man, Porter Bigelow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, impetuously, "I've been looking for you everywhere.  I
+couldn't keep my eyes off you during the service&mdash;you were&mdash;heavenly."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
+out here.  I had to show Susan about the confetti."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He drew her in and shut the door.  "They sent me to hunt for you," he
+said.  "Constance wants you.  She's going up-stairs to change.  But I
+heard just now that you are going to Nice.  Leila told me.  Mary&mdash;you
+can't go&mdash;not so far away&mdash;from me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His hand was on her arm.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shook it off with a little laugh.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter.  And I'm not going&mdash;to Nice."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Leila said&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her head went up.  It was a characteristic gesture.  "It doesn't make any
+difference what <I>any one</I> says.  I'm not going to Nice."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
+time.  Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand.  Aunt Frances,
+arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests.  Only Aunt
+Isabelle was allowed to remain.  She could be of use, and the things
+which were to be said she could not hear.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
+selfish&mdash;leaving you&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks.  "Don't worry, Con.
+I'll get along."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you'll have to bear&mdash;things&mdash;all alone.  It isn't as if any one
+knew, and you could talk it out."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
+anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Mary, he won't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, yes, he will, and you'll want him to&mdash;you'll want to turn your heart
+inside out for him to read, to say nothing of your letters."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stood up and put both of her hands on her sister's shoulders.  "But
+you mustn't tell him, Con.  No matter how much you want to, it's my
+secret and Barry's&mdash;promise me, Con&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But, Mary, a wife can't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, she <I>can</I> have secrets from her husband.  And this belongs to us,
+not to him.  You've married him, Con, but we haven't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
+could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
+time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
+sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward.  "My dear," she asked, in her thin
+troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's nothing, Aunt Isabelle."  Mary's tone was not loud, but Aunt
+Isabelle heard and nodded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She's dead tired, poor dear, and wrought up.  I'll run and get the
+aromatic spirits."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With Aunt Isabella out of the way, Mary set herself to repair the damage
+she had done.  "I've made you cry on your wedding day, Con, and I wanted
+you to be so happy.  Oh, tell Gordon, if you must.  But you'll find that
+he won't look at it as you and I have looked at it.  He won't make the
+excuses."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, yes he will."  Constance's happiness seemed to come back to her
+suddenly in a flood of assurance.  "He's the best man in the world, Mary,
+and so kind.  It's because you don't know him that you think as you do."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary could not quench the trust in the blue eyes.  "Of course he's good,"
+she said, "and you are going to be the happiest ever, Constance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Aunt Isabelle came back and found that the need for the aromatic
+spirits was over, and together the loving hands hurried Constance into
+her going away gown of dull blue and silver, with its sable trimmed wrap
+and hat.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If it hadn't been for Aunt Frances, how could I have faced Gordon's
+friends in London?" said Constance.  "Am I all right now, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Lovely, Con, dear."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it was Aunt Isabelle's hushed voice which gave the appropriate
+phrase.  "She looks like a bluebird&mdash;for happiness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At the foot of the stairway Gordon was waiting for his bride&mdash;handsome
+and prosperous as a bridegroom should be, with a dark sleek head and
+eager eyes, and beside him Porter Bigelow, topping him by a head, and a
+red head at that.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As Mary followed Constance, Porter tucked her hand under his arm.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"Oh, Mary, Mary, quite contrary,<BR>
+Your eyes they are so bright,<BR>
+That the stars grow pale, as they tell the tale<BR>
+To the other stars at night,"
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+he improvised under his breath.  "Oh, Mary Ballard, do you know that I am
+holding on to myself with all my might to keep from shouting to the
+crowd, 'Mary isn't going away.  Mary isn't going away.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Silly&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You say that, but you don't mean it.  Mary, you can't be hard-hearted on
+such a night as this.  Say that I may stay for five minutes&mdash;ten&mdash;after
+the others have gone&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were out on the porch now, and he had folded about her the wrap
+which she had brought down with her.  "Of course you may stay," she said,
+"but much good may it do you.  Aunt Frances is staying and General
+Dick&mdash;there's to be a family conclave in the Sanctum&mdash;but if you want to
+listen you may."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And how the rose-leaves began to flutter!  Susan Jenks had handed out the
+bags, and secretly, and with much elation had leaned over the rail as
+Constance passed down the steps, and had emptied her own little offering
+of rice in the middle of the bride's blue hat!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was Barry, aided and abetted by Leila, who brought out the old
+slippers.  There were Constance's dancing slippers, high-heeled and of
+delicate hues, Mary's more individual low-heeled ones, Barry's outworn
+pumps, decorated hurriedly by Leila for the occasion with lovers' knots
+of tissue paper.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it was just as the bride waved "Good-bye" from Gordon's limousine
+that a new slipper followed the old ones, for Leila, carried away by the
+excitement, and having at the moment no other missile at hand, reached
+down, and plucking off one of her own pink sandals, hurled it with all
+her might at the moving car.  It landed on top, and Leila, with a gasp,
+realized that it was gone forever.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It serves you right."  Looking up, she met Barry's laughing eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sank down on the step.  "And they were a new pair!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Lucky that it's your birthday next week," he said.  "Do you want pink
+ones?'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Barry!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her delight was overwhelming.  "Heavens, child," he condoned her, "don't
+look as if I were the grand Mogul.  Do you know I sometimes think you are
+eight instead of eighteen?  And now, if you'll take my arm, you can
+hippity-hop into the house.  And I hope that you'll remember this, that
+if I give you pink slippers you are not to throw them away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the hall they met Leila's father&mdash;General Wilfred Dick.  The General
+had married, in late bachelorhood, a young wife.  Leila was like her
+mother in her dark sparkling beauty and demure sweetness.  But she showed
+at times the spirit of her father&mdash;the spirit which had carried the
+General gallantly through the Civil War, and had led him after the war to
+make a success of the practice of law.  He had been for years the
+intimate friend and adviser of the Ballards, and it was at Mary's request
+that he was to stay to share in the coming conclave.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He told Leila this.  "You'll have to wait, too," he said.  "And now, why
+are you hopping on one foot in that absurd fashion?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dad, dear, I lost my shoe&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Her very best pink one," Barry explained; "she threw it after the bride,
+and now I've got to give her another pair for her birthday."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The General's old eyes brightened as he surveyed the young pair.  This
+was as it should be, the son of his old friend and the daughter of his
+heart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He tried to look stern, however.  "Haven't I always kept you supplied
+with pink shoes and blue shoes and all the colors of the rainbow shoes!"
+he demanded.  "And why should you tax Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But, Dad, he wants to."  She looked eagerly at Barry for confirmation.
+"He wants to give them to me&mdash;for my birthday&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course I do," said Barry, lightly.  "If I didn't give her slippers, I
+should have to give her something else&mdash;and far be it from me to know
+what&mdash;little&mdash;lovely&mdash;Leila&mdash;wants&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And to the tune of his chant, they hippity-hopped together up the stairs
+in a hunt for some stray shoe that should fit little-lovely-Leila's foot!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A little later, the silken ladies having descended the stairway for the
+last time, Aunt Frances took her amber satin stateliness to the Sanctum.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Behind her, a silver shadow, came Aunt Isabelle, and bringing up the
+rear, General Dick, and the four young people; Leila in a pair of
+mismated slippers, hippity-hopping behind with Barry, and Porter assuring
+Mary that he knew he "hadn't any business to butt in to a family party,"
+but that he was coming anyhow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The Sanctum was the front room on the second floor.  It had been the
+Little Mother's room in the days when she was still with them, and now it
+had been turned into a retreat where the young people drifted when they
+wanted quiet, or where they met for consultation and advice.  Except that
+the walnut bed and bureau had been taken out nothing had been changed,
+and their mother's books were still in the low bookcases; religious
+books, many of them, reflecting the gentle faith of the owner.  On mantel
+and table and walls were photographs of her children in long clothes and
+short, and then once more in long ones; there was Barry in wide collars
+and knickerbockers, and Constance and Mary in ermine caps and capes;
+there was Barry again in the military uniform of his preparatory school;
+Constance in her graduation frock, and Mary with her hair up for the
+first time.  There was a picture of their father on porcelain in a blue
+velvet case, and another picture of him above the mantel in an oval
+frame, with one of the Little Mother's, also in an oval frame, to flank
+it.  In the fairness of the Little Mother one traced the fairness of
+Barry and Constance.  But the fairness and features of the father were
+Mary's.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary had never looked more like her father than now when, sitting under
+his picture, she stated her case.  What she had to say she said simply.
+But when she had finished there was the silence of astonishment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In a day, almost in an hour, little Mary had grown up!  With Constance as
+the nominal head of the household, none of them had realized that it was
+Mary's mind which had worked out the problems of making ends meet, and
+that it was Mary's strength and industry which had supplemented Susan's
+waning efforts in the care of the big house.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want to keep the house," Mary repeated.  "I had to talk it over
+to-night, Aunt Frances, because you go back to New York in the morning,
+and I couldn't speak of it before to-night because I was afraid that some
+hint of my plan would get to Constance and she would be troubled.  She'll
+learn it later, but I didn't want her to have it on her mind now.  I want
+to stay here.  I've always lived here, and so has Barry&mdash;and while I
+appreciate your plans for me to go to Nice, I don't think it would be
+fair or right for me to leave Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry, a little embarrassed to be brought into it, said, "Oh, you needn't
+mind about me&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I do mind."  Mary had risen and was speaking earnestly.  "I am sure
+you must see it, Aunt Frances.  If I went with you, Barry would be left
+to&mdash;drift&mdash;and I shouldn't like to think of that.  Mother wouldn't have
+liked it, or father."  Her voice touched an almost shrill note of protest.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter Bigelow, sitting unobtrusively in the background, was moved by her
+earnestness.  "There's something back of it," his quick mind told him;
+"she knows about&mdash;Barry&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Barry, too, was on his feet.  "Oh, look here, Mary," he was
+expostulating, "I'm not going to have you stay at home and miss a winter
+of good times, just because I'll have to eat a few meals in a
+boarding-house.  And I sha'n't have to eat many.  When I get starved for
+home cooking, I'll hunt up my friends.  You'll take me in now and then,
+for Sunday dinner, won't you, General?&mdash;Leila says you will; and it isn't
+as if you were never coming back&mdash;Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If we close the house now," Mary said, "it will mean that it won't be
+opened again.  You all know that."  Her accusing glance rested on Aunt
+Frances and the General.  "You all think it ought to be sold, but if we
+sell what will become of Susan Jenks, who nursed us and who nursed
+mother, and what shall we do with all the dear old things that were
+mother's and father's, and who will live in the dear old rooms?"  She was
+struggling for composure.  "Oh, don't you see that I&mdash;I can't go?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was Aunt Frances' crisp voice which brought her back to calmness.
+"But, my dear, you can't afford to keep it open.  Your income with what
+Barry earns isn't any more than enough to pay your running expenses;
+there's nothing left for taxes or improvements.  I'm perfectly willing to
+finance you to the best of my ability, but I think it very foolish to
+sink any more money&mdash;here&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want you to sink it, Aunt Frances.  Constance begged me to use
+her little part of our income, but I wouldn't.  We sha'n't need it.  I've
+fixed things so that we shall have money for the taxes.  I&mdash;I have rented
+the Tower Rooms, Aunt Frances!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They stared at her stunned.  Even Leila tore her adoring eyes from
+Barry's face, and fixed them on the girl who made this astounding
+statement.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," Aunt Frances gasped, "do you meant that you are going to
+take&mdash;lodgers&mdash;&mdash;?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Only one, Aunt Frances.  And he's perfectly respectable.  I advertised
+and he answered, and he gave me a bank reference."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>He</I>.  Mary, is it a man?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary nodded.  "Of course.  I should hate to have a woman fussing around.
+And I set the rent for the suite at exactly the amount I shall need to
+take me through this year, and he was satisfied."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She turned and picked up a printed slip from the table.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This is the way I wrote my ad," she said, "and I had twenty-seven
+answers.  And this seemed the best&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Twenty-seven!"  Aunt Frances held out her hand.  "Will you let me see
+what you wrote to get such remarkable results?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary handed it to her, and through the diamond-studded lorgnette Aunt
+Frances read:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To let: Suite of two rooms and bath; with Gentleman's Library.  House on
+top of a high hill which overlooks the city.  Exceptional advantages for
+a student or scholar."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I consider," said Mary, as Aunt Frances paused, "that the Gentleman's
+Library part was an inspiration.  It was the bait at which they all
+nibbled."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The General chuckled, "She'll do.  Let her have her own way, Frances.
+She's got a head on her like a man's."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances turned on him.  "Mary speaks what is to me a rather new
+language of independence.  And she can't stay here alone.  She <I>can't</I>.
+It isn't proper&mdash;without an older woman in the house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I want an older woman.  Oh, Aunt Frances, please, may I have Aunt
+Isabelle?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She had raised her voice so that Aunt Isabelle caught the name.  "What
+does she want, Frances?" asked the deaf woman; "what does she want?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She wants you to live with her&mdash;here."  Aunt Frances was thinking
+rapidly; it wasn't such a bad plan.  It was always a problem to take
+Isabelle when she and her daughter traveled.  And if they left her in New
+York there was always the haunting fear that she might be ill, or that
+they might be criticized for leaving her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary wants you to live with her," she said, "While we are abroad, would
+you like it&mdash;a winter in Washington?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle's gentle face was illumined.  "Do you really <I>want</I> me, my
+dear?" she asked in her hushed voice.  It had been a long time since Aunt
+Isabelle had felt that she was wanted anywhere.  It seemed to her that
+since the illness which had sent her into a world of silence, that her
+presence had been endured, not coveted.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary came over and put her arms about her.  "Will you, Aunt Isabelle?"
+she asked.  "I shall miss Constance so, and it would almost be like
+having mother to have&mdash;you&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+No one knew how madly the hungry heart was beating under the silver-gray
+gown.  Aunt Isabella was only forty-eight, twelve years younger than her
+sister Frances, but she had faded and drooped, while Frances had stood up
+like a strong flower on its stem.  And the little faded drooping lady
+yearned for tenderness, was starved for it, and here was Mary in her
+youth and beauty, promising it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want you so much, and Barry wants you&mdash;and Susan Jenks&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was laughing tremulously, and Aunt Isabelle laughed too, holding on
+to herself, so that she might not show in face or gesture the wildness of
+her joy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You won't mind, will you, Frances?" she asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances rose and shook out her amber skirts "I shall of course be
+much disappointed," she pitched her voice high and spoke with chill
+stateliness, "I shall be very much disappointed that neither you nor Mary
+will be with us for the winter.  And I shall have to cross alone.  But
+Grace can meet me in London.  She's going there to see Constance, and I
+shall stay for a while and start the young people socially.  I should
+think you'd want to see Constance, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary drew a quick breath.  "I do want to see her&mdash;but I have to think
+about Barry&mdash;and for this winter, at least, my place&mdash;is here."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then from the back of the room spoke Porter Bigelow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What's the name of your lodger?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There are Pooles in Gramercy Park," said Aunt Frances.  "I wonder if
+he's one of them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary shook her head.  "He's from the South."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I should think," said Porter, slowly, "that you'd want to know something
+of him besides his bank reference before you took him into your house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why?" Mary demanded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because he might be&mdash;a thief, or a rascal," Porter spoke hotly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Over the heads of the others their eyes met.  "He is neither," said Mary.
+"I know a gentleman when I see one, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then the temper of the redhead flamed.  "Oh, do you?  Well, for my part I
+wish that you were going to Nice, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap03"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER III
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of This Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances With the Rest.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+When Roger Poole came a week later to the big house on the hill, it was
+on a rainy day.  He carried his own bag, and was let in at the lower
+door by Susan Jenks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her smiling brown face gave him at once a sense of homeyness.  She led
+the way through the wide hall and up the front stairs, crisp and
+competent in her big white apron and black gown.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he followed her, Roger was aware that the house had lost its
+effulgence.  The flowers were gone, and the radiance, and the stairs
+that the silken ladies had once ascended showed, at closer range,
+certain signs of shabbiness.  The carpet was old and mended.  There was
+a chilliness about the atmosphere, as if the fire, too, needed mending.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But when Susan Jenks opened the door of the Tower Room, he was met by
+warmth and brightness.  Here was the light of leaping flames and of a
+low-shaded lamp.  On the table beside the lamp was a pot of pink
+hyacinths, and their fragrance made the air sweet.  The inner room was
+no longer a rosy bower, but a man's retreat, with its substantial
+furniture, its simplicity, its absence of non-essentials.  In this room
+Roger set down his bag, and Susan Jenks, hanging big towels and little
+ones in the bathroom, drawing the curtains, and coaxing the fire,
+flitted cozily back and forth for a few minutes and then withdrew.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was then that Roger surveyed his domain.  He was monarch of all of
+it.  The big chair was his to rest in, the fire was his, the low lamp,
+all the old friends in the bookcases!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He went again into the inner room.  The glass candlesticks were gone
+and the photographs in their silver and ivory frames, but over the
+mantel there was a Corot print with forest vistas, and another above
+his little bedside table.  On the table was a small electric lamp with
+a green shade, a new magazine, and a little old bulging Bible with a
+limp leather binding.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he stood looking down at the little table, he was thrilled by the
+sense of safety after a storm.  Outside was the world with its harsh
+judgments.  Outside was the rain and the beating wind.  Within were
+these signs of a heart-warming hospitality.  Here was no bleak
+cleanliness, no perfunctory arrangement, but a place prepared as for an
+honored guest.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Down-stairs Mary was explaining to Aunt Isabelle.  "I'll have Susan
+Jenks take some coffee to him.  He's to get his dinners in town, and
+Susan will serve his breakfast in his room.  But I thought the coffee
+to-night after the rain&mdash;might be comfortable."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The two women were in the dining-room.  The table had been set for
+three, but Barry had not come.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The dinner had been a simple affair&mdash;an unfashionably nourishing soup,
+a broiled fish, a salad and now the coffee.  Thus did Mary and Susan
+Jenks make income and expenses meet.  Susan's good cooking,
+supplementing Mary's gastronomic discrimination, made a feast of the
+simple fare.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What's his business, my dear?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mr. Poole's?  He's in the Treasury.  But I think he's studying
+something.  He seemed to be so eager for the books&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Your father's books?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  I left them all up there.  I even left father's old Bible.
+Somehow I felt that if any one was tired or lonely that the old Bible
+would open at the right page."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Your father was often lonely?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  After mother's death.  And he worked too hard, and things went
+wrong with his business.  I used to slip up to his bedroom sometimes in
+the last days, and there he'd be with the old Bible on his knee, and
+mother's picture in his hand."  Mary's eyes were wet.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He loved your mother and missed her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It was more than that.  He was afraid of the future for Constance and
+me.  He was afraid of the future for&mdash;Barry&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks, carrying a mahogany tray on which was a slender silver
+coffee-pot flanked by a dish of cheese and toasted biscuit, asked as
+she went through the room: "Shall I save any dinner for Mr. Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He'll be here," Mary said.  "Porter Bigelow is taking us to the
+theater, and Barry's to make the fourth."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry was often late, but to-night it was half-past seven when he came
+rushing in.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want anything to eat," he said, stopping at the door of the
+dining-room where Mary and Aunt Isabelle still waited.  "I had tea
+down-town with General Dick and Leila's crowd.  And we danced.  There
+was a girl from New York, and she was a little queen."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary smiled at him.  To Aunt Isabella's quick eyes it seemed to be a
+smile of relief.  "Oh, then you were with the General and Leila," she
+said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Where did you think I was?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nowhere," flushing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He started up-stairs and then came back.  "I wish you'd give me credit
+for being able to keep a promise, Mary.  You know what I told Con&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It wasn't that I didn't believe&mdash;&mdash;"  Mary crossed the dining-room and
+stood in the door.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, it was.  You thought I was with the old crowd.  I might as well
+go with them as to have you always thinking it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not always thinking it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, you are, too," hotly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry&mdash;please&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stood uneasily at the foot of the stairs.  "You can't understand how
+I feel.  If you were a boy&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She caught him up.  "If I were a boy?  Barry, if I were a boy I'd make
+the world move.  Oh, you | men, you have things all your own way, and
+you let it stand still&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She had raised her voice, and her words floating up and up reached the
+ears of Roger Poole, who appeared at the top of the stairway.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a moment's startled silence, then Mary spoke.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry, it is Mr. Poole.  You don't know each other, do you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The two men, one going up the stairway, the other coming down, met and
+shook hands.  Then Barry muttered something about having to run away
+and dress, and Roger and Mary were left alone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was the first time that they had seen each other, since the night of
+the wedding.  They had arranged everything by telephone, and on the
+second short visit that Roger had made to his rooms, Susan Jenks had
+looked after him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed to Roger now that, like the house, Mary had taken on a new
+and less radiant aspect.  She looked pale and tired.  Her dress of
+white with its narrow edge of dark fur made her taller and older.  Her
+fair waved hair was parted at the side and dressed compactly without
+ornament or ribbon.  He was again, however, impressed by the almost
+frank boyishness of her manner as she said:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want you to meet Aunt Isabella.  She can't hear very well, so you'll
+have to raise your voice."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As they went in together, Mary was forced to readjust certain opinions
+which she had formed of her lodger.  The other night he had been
+divorced from the dapper youths of her own set by his lack of
+up-to-dateness, his melancholy, his air of mystery.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But to-night he wore a loose coat which she recognized at once as good
+style.  His dark hair which had hung in an untidy lock was brushed back
+as smoothly and as sleekly as Gordon Richardson's.  His dark eyes had a
+waked-up look.  And there was a hint of color in his clean-shaven olive
+cheeks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I came down," he told her as he walked beside her, "to thank you for
+the coffee, for the hyacinths; for the fire, for the&mdash;welcome that my
+room gave me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, did you like it?  We were very busy up there all the morning, Aunt
+Isabelle and I and Susan Jenks."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I felt like thanking Susan Jenks for the big bath towels; they seemed
+to add the final perfect touch."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She laughed and repeated his remark to Aunt Isabelle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Think of his being grateful for bath towels, Aunt Isabelle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After his presentation to Aunt Isabelle, he said, smiling:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And there was another touch&mdash;the big gray pussy cat.  She was in the
+window-seat, and when I sat down to look at the lights, she tucked her
+head under my hand and sang to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Pittiwitz</I>?  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, we left Pittiwitz up there.  She
+claims your room as hers," she explained to Roger.  "We've had her for
+years.  And she was always there with father, and then with Constance
+and me.  If she's a bother, just put her on the back stairs and she
+will come down."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But she isn't a bother.  It is very pleasant to have something alive
+to bear me company."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The moment that his remark was made he was afraid that she might
+interpret it as a plea for companionship.  And he had no right&mdash;&mdash;
+What earthly right had he to expect to enter this charmed circle?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks came in with her arms full of wraps.  "Mr. Porter's
+coming," she said, "and it's eight o'clock now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We are going out&mdash;&mdash;"  Mary was interested to note that her lodger had
+taken Aunt Isabelle's wrap, and was putting her into it without
+self-consciousness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her own wrap was of a shimmering gray-green velvet which matched her
+eyes, and there was a collar of dark fur.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's a pretty thing," Roger said, as he held it for her.  "It's like
+the sea in a mist."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She flashed a quick glance at him.  "I like that," she said in her
+straightforward way.  "It is lovely.  Aunt Frances brought it to me
+last year from Paris.  Whenever you see me wear anything that is
+particularly nice, you'll know that it came from Aunt Frances&mdash;Aunt
+Isabelle's sister.  She's the rich member of the family.  And all the
+rest of us are as poor as poverty."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Outside a motor horn brayed.  Then Porter Bigelow came in&mdash;a perfectly
+put together young man, groomed, tailored, outfitted according to the
+mode.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are you ready, Contrary Mary?" he said, then saw Roger and stopped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter was a gentleman, so his manner to Roger Poole showed no hint of
+what he thought of lodgers in general, and this one in particular.  He
+shook hands and said a few pleasant and perfunctory things.  Personally
+he thought the man looked down and out.  But no one could tell what
+Mary might think.  Mary's standards were those of the dreamer and the
+star gazer.  What she was seeking she would never find in a Mere Man.
+The danger lay however, in the fact that she might mistakenly hang her
+affections about the neck of some earth-bound Object and call it an
+Ideal.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As for himself, in spite of his Buff-Orpington crest, and his
+cock-o'-the-walk manner, Porter was, as far Mary was concerned,
+saturated with humility.  He knew that his money, his family's social
+eminence were as nothing in her eyes.  If underneath the weight of
+these things Mary could find enough of a man in him to love that could
+be his only hope.  And that hope had held him for years to certain
+rather sedate ambitions, and had given him moral standards which had
+delighted his mother and had puzzled his father.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," he said to Mary two hours
+later, in the intermission between the second and third acts of the
+musical comedy, which, for a time, had claimed their attention.  Aunt
+Isabelle, in front of the box, was smiling gently, happy in the golden
+light and the nearness of the music.  Barry was visiting Leila and the
+General who were just below, in orchestra chairs.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," Porter repeated, "and now, if
+you'll only let me take care of you&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Hitherto, Mary had treated his love-making lightly, but to-night she
+turned upon him her troubled eyes.  "Porter, you know I can't.  But
+there are times when I wish&mdash;I could&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stopped him with a gesture.  "It wouldn't be right.  I'm simply
+feeling lonely and lost because Constance is so far away.  But that
+isn't any reason for marrying you.  You deserve a woman who cares, who
+really cares, heart and soul.  And I can't, dear boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I was a fool to think you might," savagely, "a man with a red head is
+always a joke."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"As if that had anything to do with it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But it has, Mary.  You know as well as I do that when I was a
+youngster I was always Reddy Bigelow to our crowd&mdash;Reddy Bigelow with a
+carrot-head and freckles.  If I had been poor and common, life wouldn't
+have been worth living.  But mother's family and Dad's money fixed that
+for me.  And I had an allowance big enough to supply the neighborhood
+with sweets.  You were a little thing, but you were sorry for me, and I
+didn't have to buy you.  But I'd buy you now&mdash;with a house in town and
+a country house, and motor cars and lovely clothes&mdash;if I thought it
+would do any good, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You wouldn't want me that way, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want you&mdash;any way."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stopped as the curtain went up, and darkness descended.  But
+presently out of the darkness came his whisper, "I want you&mdash;any way."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They had supper after the play, Leila and the General joining them at
+Porter's compelling invitation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Pending the serving of the supper, Barry detained Leila for a moment in
+a palm-screened corner of the sumptuous corridor.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That girl from New York, Leila&mdash;Miss Jeliffe?  What is her first name?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Delilah."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It isn't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila's light laughter mocked him.  "Yes, it is, Barry.  She calls
+herself Lilah and pronounces it as I do mine.  But she signs her
+cheques De-lilah."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry recovered.  "Where did you meet her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"At school.  Her father's in Congress.  They are coming to us
+to-morrow.  Dad has asked me to invite them as house guests until they
+find an apartment."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, she's dazzling."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila flamed.  "I don't see how you can like&mdash;her kind&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Little lady," he admonished, "you're jealous.  I danced four dances
+with her, and only one with your new pink slippers."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stuck out a small foot.  "They're lovely, Barry," she said,
+repentantly, "and I haven't thanked you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why should you?  Just look pleasant, please.  I've had enough scolding
+for one day."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Who scolded?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila glanced into the dining-room, where, in her slim fairness, Mary
+was like a pale lily, among all the tulip women, and poppy women, and
+orchid women, and night-shade women of the social garden.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If Mary scolded you, you deserved it," she said, loyally.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You too?  Leila, if you don't stick to me, I might as well give up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His face was moody, brooding.  She forgot the Delilah-dancer of the
+afternoon, forgot everything except that this wonderful man-creature
+was in trouble.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry," she said, simply, like a child, "I'll stick to you until
+I&mdash;die."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He looked down into the adoring eyes.  "I believe you would, Leila," he
+said, with a boyish catch in his voice; "you're the dearest thing on
+God's great earth!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The chilled fruit was already on the table when they went in, and it
+was followed by a chafing dish over which the General presided.
+Red-faced and rapturous, he seasoned and stirred, and as the result of
+his wizardry there was placed before them presently such plates of
+Creole crab as could not be equaled north of New Orleans.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To cook," said the General, settling himself back in his chair and
+beaming at Mary who was beside him, "one must be a poet&mdash;to me there is
+more in that dish than merely something to eat.  There's color&mdash;the red
+of tomatoes, the green of the peppers, the pale ivory of mushrooms, the
+snow white of the crab&mdash;there's atmosphere&mdash;aroma."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The difference," Mary told him, smiling, "between your cooking and
+Susan Jenks' is the difference between an epic&mdash;and a nursery rhyme.
+They're both good, but Susan's is unpremeditated art."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I take off my hat to Susan Jenks," said the General&mdash;"when her poetry
+expresses itself in waffles and fried chicken."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary was devoting herself to the General.  Porter Bigelow who was on
+the other side of her, was devoting himself to Aunt Isabelle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle was serenely content in her new office of chaperone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I can hear so much better in a crowd." she said, "and then there's so
+much to see."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And this is the time for the celebrities," said Porter, and wrote on
+the corner of the supper card the name of a famous Russian countess at
+the table next to them.  Beyond was the Speaker of the House; the
+British Ambassador with his fair company of ladies; the Spanish
+Ambassador at a table of darker beauties.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, listening to Porter's pleasant voice, was constrained to admit
+that he could be charming.  As for the freckles and "carrot-head," they
+had been succeeded by a fine if somewhat florid complexion, and the
+curled thickness of his brilliant crown gave to his head an almost
+classic beauty.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she studied him, his eyes met hers, and he surprised her by a quick
+smile of understanding.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Contrary Mary," he murmured, so that the rest could not hear,
+"what do you think of me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She found herself blushing, "<I>Porter.</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You were weighing me in the balance?  Red head against my lovely
+disposition?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Before she could answer, he had turned back to Aunt Isabelle, leaving
+Mary with her cheeks hot.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After supper, the young host insisted that Leila and the General should
+go home in his limousine with Barry and Aunt Isabelle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary and I will follow in a taxi," he said in the face of their
+protests.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Young man," demanded the twinkling General, "if I accept, will you
+look upon me in the light of an incumbrance or a benefactor?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A benefactor, sir," said Porter, promptly, and that settled it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now," said Porter, as, having seen the rest of the party off, he
+took his seat beside the slim figure in the green velvet wrap, "now I
+am going to have it out with you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But&mdash;Porter!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I've a lot to say.  And we are going to ride around the Speedway while
+I say it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But&mdash;it's raining."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"All the better.  It will be we two and the world away, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And there isn't anything to say."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, yes, there is&mdash;<I>oodles</I>."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And Aunt Isabelle will be worried."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He drew the rug up around her and settled back as placidly as if the
+hands on the moon face of the clock on the post-office tower were not
+pointing to midnight.  "Aunt Isabelle has been told," he informed her,
+"that you may be a bit late.  I wrote it on the supper card, and she
+read it&mdash;and smiled."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He waited in silence until they had left the avenue, and were on the
+driveway back of the Treasury which leads toward the river.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter, this is a wild thing to do."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm in a wild mood&mdash;a mood that fits in with the rain and wind, Mary.
+I'm in such a mood that if the times were different and the age more
+romantic, I would pick you up and put you on my champing steed and
+carry you off to my castle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He laughed, and for the moment she was thrilled by his masterfulness.
+"But, alas, my steed is a taxi&mdash;the age is prosaic&mdash;and you&mdash;I'm afraid
+of you, Contrary Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were on the Speedway now, faintly illumined, showing a row of
+waving willow trees, spectrally outlined against a background of gray
+water.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm afraid of you.  I have always been.  Even when you were only ten
+and I was fifteen.  I would shake in my shoes when you looked at me,
+Mary; you were the only one then&mdash;you are the only one&mdash;now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her hand lay on the outside of the rug.  He put his own over it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Ever since you said to-night that you didn't care&mdash;there's been
+something singing&mdash;in my brain, and it has said, 'make her care, make
+her care.'  And I'm going to do it.  I'm not going to trouble you or
+worry you with it&mdash;and I'm going to take my chances with the rest.  But
+in the end I'm going to&mdash;win."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There aren't any others."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If there aren't there will be.  You've kept yourself protected so far
+by that little independent manner of yours, which scares men off.  But
+some day a man will come who won't be scared&mdash;and then it will be a
+fight to the finish between him&mdash;and me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Porter, I don't want to think of marrying&mdash;not for ten million
+years."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And yet," he said prophetically, "if to-morrow you should meet some
+man who could make you think he was the Only One, you'd marry him in
+the face of all the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No man of that kind will ever come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What kind?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That will make me willing to lose the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The rain was beating against the windows of the cab.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter, please.  We must go home."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not unless you'll promise to let me prove it&mdash;to let me show that I'm
+a man&mdash;not a&mdash;boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're the best friend I've ever had.  I wish you wouldn't insist on
+being something else."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I do insist&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And I insist upon going home.  Be good and take me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was said with decision, and he gave the order to the driver.  And so
+they whirled at last up the avenue of the Presidents and along the
+edges of the Park, and arrived at the foot of the terrace of the big
+house.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a light in the tower window.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That fellow is up yet," Porter said.  He had an umbrella over her, and
+was shielding her as best he could from the rain.  "I don't like to
+think of him in the house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, he sees you every day.  Talks to you every day.  And what do you
+know of him?  And I who've known you all my life must be content with
+scrappy minutes with other people around.  And anyhow&mdash;I believe I'd be
+jealous of Satan himself, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were under the porch now, and she drew away from him a bit,
+surveying him with disapproving eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You aren't like yourself to-night, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He put one hand on her shoulder and stood looking down at her.  "How
+can I be?  What am I going to do when I leave you, Mary, and face the
+fact that you don't care&mdash;that I'm no more to you&mdash;than that fellow up
+there in the&mdash;tower?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He straightened himself, then with the madness of his earlier mood upon
+him, he said one thing more before he left her:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Contrary Mary, if I weren't such a coward, and you weren't
+so&mdash;wonderful&mdash;I'd kiss you now&mdash;and <I>make</I> you&mdash;care&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap04"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER IV
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets That There is Any One Else in the House.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Up-stairs among his books Roger Poole heard Mary come in.  With the
+curtains drawn behind him to shut out the light, he looked down into
+the streaming night, and saw Porter drive away alone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Mary's footstep on the stairs; her raised voice as she greeted
+Aunt Isabelle, who had waited up for her.  A door was shut, and again
+the house sank into silence.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger turned to his books, but not to read.  The old depression was
+upon him.  In the glow of his arrival, he had been warmed by the hope
+that things could be different; here in this hospitable house he had,
+perchance, found a home.  So he had gone down to find that he was an
+outsider&mdash;an alien&mdash;old where they were young, separated from Barry and
+Porter and Mary by years of dark experience.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To him, at this moment, Mary Ballard stood for a symbol of the things
+which he had lost.  Her youth and light-heartedness, her high courage,
+and now, perhaps, her romance.  He knew the look that was in Porter
+Bigelow's eyes when they had rested upon her.  The look of a man who
+claims&mdash;his own.  And behind Bigelow's pleasant and perfunctory
+greeting Roger had felt a subtle antagonism.  He smiled bitterly.  No
+man need fear him.  He was out of the running.  He was done with love,
+with romance, with women, forever.  A woman had spoiled his life.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet, if before the other, he had met Mary Ballard?  The possibilities
+swept over him.  His life to-day would have been different.  He would
+be facing the world, not turning his back to it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Brooding over the dying fire, his eyes were stern.  If it had been his
+fault, he would have taken his punishment without flinching.  But to be
+overthrown by an act of chivalry&mdash;to be denied the expression of that
+which surged within him.  Daily he bent over a desk, doing the work
+that any man might do, he who had been carried on the shoulders of his
+fellow students, he whose voice had rung with a clarion call!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the lower hall, a door was again opened, and now there were
+footsteps ascending.  Then he heard a little laugh.  "I've found
+her&mdash;Aunt Isabelle, she insists upon going up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He clicked off his light and very carefully opened his door.  Mary was
+in the lower hall, the heavy gray cat hugged up in her arms.  She wore
+a lace boudoir cap, and a pale blue dressing-gown trailed after her.
+Seen thus, she was exquisitely feminine.  Faintly through his
+consciousness flitted Porter Bigelow's name for her&mdash;Contrary Mary.
+Why Contrary?  Was there another side which he had not seen?  He had
+heard her flaming words to Barry, "If I were a man&mdash;I'd make the world
+move&mdash;&mdash;" and he had been for the moment repelled.  He had no sympathy
+with modern feminine rebellions.  Women were women.  Men were men.  The
+things which they had in common were love, and that which followed, the
+home, the family.  Beyond these things their lives were divided,
+necessarily, properly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He groped his way back through the darkness to the tower window, opened
+it and leaned out.  The rain beat upon his face, the wind blew his hair
+back, and fluttered the ends of his loose tie.  Below him lay the
+storm-swept city, its lights faint and flickering.  He remembered a
+test which he had chosen on a night like this.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"O Lord, Thou art my God.  I will exalt Thee, I will praise Thy name,
+for Thou hast done wonderful things; Thou hast been a strength to the
+poor, a strength to the needy in distress&nbsp;&#8230; a refuge from the
+storm&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+How the words came back to him, out of that vivid past.  But
+to-night&mdash;why, there was no&mdash;God!  Was he the fool who had once seen
+God&mdash;in a storm?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shut the window, and finding a heavy coat and an old cap put them
+on.  Then he made his way, softly, down the tower steps to the side
+door.  Mary had pointed out to him that this entrance would make it
+possible for him to go and come as he pleased.  To-night it pleased him
+to walk in the beating rain.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At the far end of the garden there was an old fountain, in which a
+bronze boy rode on a bronze dolphin.  The basin of the fountain was
+filled with sodden leaves.  A street lamp at the foot of the terrace
+illumined the bronze boy's face so that it seemed to wear a twisted
+grin.  It was as if he laughed at the storm and at life, defying the
+elements with his sardonic mirth.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Back and forth, restlessly, went the lonely man, hating to enter again
+the rooms which only a few hours before had seemed a refuge.  It would
+have been better to have stayed in his last cheap boarding-house,
+better to have kept away from this place which brought memories&mdash;better
+never to have seen this group of young folk who were gay as he had once
+been gay&mdash;better never to have seen&mdash;Mary Ballard!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He glanced up at the room beneath his own where her light still burned.
+He wondered if she had stayed awake to think of the young Apollo of the
+auburn head.  Perhaps he was already her accepted lover.  And why not?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Why should he care who loved Mary Ballard?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had never believed in love at first sight.  He didn't believe in it
+now.  He only knew that he had been thrilled by a look, warmed by a
+friendliness, touched by a frankness and sincerity such as he had found
+in no other woman.  And because he had been thrilled and warmed and
+touched by these things, he was feeling to-night the deadly mockery of
+a fate which had brought her too late into his life.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center">
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Coming in, shivering and excited after her ride with Porter, Mary had
+found evidence of Aunt Isabelle's solicitous care for her.  Her fire
+was burning brightly, the covers of her bed were turned down, her blue
+dressing-gown and the little blue slippers were warming in front of the
+blaze.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No one ever did such things for me before," Mary said with
+appreciation, as the gentle lady came in to kiss her niece good-night.
+"Mother wasn't that kind.  We all waited on her.  And Susan Jenks is
+too busy; it isn't right to keep her up.  And anyway I've always been
+more like a boy, taking care of myself.  Constance was the one we
+petted, Con and mother."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I love to do it," Aunt Isabelle said, eagerly.  "When I am at Frances'
+there are so many servants, and I feel pushed out.  There's nothing
+that I can do for any one.  Grace and Frances each have a maid.  So I
+live my own life, and sometimes it has been&mdash;lonely."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You darling."  Mary laid her cool young lips against the soft cheek.
+"I'm dead lonely, too.  That's why I wanted you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle stood for a moment looking into the fire.  "It has been
+years since anybody wanted me," she said, finally.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was no bitterness in her tone; she simply stated a fact.  Yet in
+her youth she had been the beauty of the family, and the toast of a
+county.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Aunt Isabelle," Mary said, suddenly, "is marriage the only way out for
+a woman?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The only way?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To freedom.  It seems to me that a single woman always seems to belong
+to her family.  Why shouldn't you do as you please?  Why shouldn't I?
+And yet you've never lived your own life.  And I sha'n't be able to
+live mine except by fighting every inch of the way."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A flush stained Aunt Isabelle's cheeks.  "I have always been poor,
+Mary&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But that isn't it," fiercely.  "There are poor girls who aren't
+tied&mdash;I mean by conventions and family traditions.  Why, Aunt Isabelle,
+I rented the Tower Rooms not only in defiance of the living&mdash;but of the
+dead.  I can see mother's face if we had thought of such a thing while
+she lived.  Yet we needed the money then.  We needed it to help Dad&mdash;to
+save him&mdash;&mdash;"  The last words were spoken under her breath, and Aunt
+Isabelle did not catch them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now everybody wants me to get married.  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, sit
+down and let's talk it out.  I'm not sleepy, are you?"  She drew the
+little lady beside her on the high-backed couch which faced the fire.
+"Everybody wants me to get married, Aunt Isabelle.  And to-night I had
+it out with&mdash;Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You don't love him?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not&mdash;that way.  But sometimes&mdash;he makes me feel as if I couldn't
+escape him&mdash;as if he would persist and persist, until he won.  But I
+don't want love to come to me that way.  It seems to me that if one
+loves, one knows.  One doesn't have to be shown."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"My dear, sometimes it is a tragedy when a woman knows."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But why?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because men like to conquer.  When they see love in a woman's eyes,
+their own love&mdash;dies."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I should hate a man like that," said Mary, frankly.  "If a man only
+loves you because of the conquest, what's going to happen when you are
+married and the chase is over?  No, Aunt Isabelle, when I fall in love,
+it will be with a man who will know that I am the One Woman.  He must
+love me because I am Me&mdash;Myself.  Not because some one else admires me,
+or because I can keep him guessing.  He will know me as I know him&mdash;as
+his Predestined Mate!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus spoke Sweet and Twenty, glowing.  And Sweet and Forty, meeting
+that flame with her banked fires, faltered.  "But, my dear, how can you
+know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How did you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The abrupt question drove every drop of blood from Aunt Isabelle's
+face.  "Who told you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mother.  One night when I asked her why you had never married.  You
+don't mind, do you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head.  "No.  And, Mary, dear, I've faced all
+the loneliness, all the dependence, rather than be untrue to that which
+he gave me and I gave him.  There was one night, in this old garden.  I
+was visiting your mother, and he was in Congress at the time, and the
+garden was full of roses&mdash;and it was&mdash;moonlight.  And we sat by the
+fountain, and there was the soft splash of the water, and he said:
+'Isabelle, the little bronze boy is throwing kisses at you&mdash;do you see
+him&mdash;smiling?'  And I said, 'I want no kisses but yours'&mdash;and that was
+the last time.  The next day he was killed&mdash;thrown from his horse while
+he was riding out here to see&mdash;me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It was after that I was so ill.  And something teemed to snap in my
+head, and one day when I sat beside the fountain I found that I
+couldn't hear the splash of the water, and things began to go; the
+voices I loved seemed far away, and I could tell that the wind was
+blowing only by the movement of the leaves, and the birds rounded out
+their little throats&mdash;but I heard&mdash;no music&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her voice trailed away into silence.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But before the stillness, there were others who&mdash;wanted me&mdash;for I
+hadn't lost my prettiness, and Frances did her best for me.  And she
+didn't like it when I said I couldn't marry, Mary.  But now I am glad.
+For in the silence, my love and I live, in a world of our own."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Aunt Isabelle&mdash;darling.  How lovely and sweet, and sad&mdash;&mdash;"  Mary was
+kneeling beside her aunt, her arm thrown around her, and Aunt Isabelle,
+reading her lips, did not need to hear the words.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If I had been strong, like you, Mary, I could have held my own against
+Frances and have made something of myself.  But I'm not strong, and
+twenty-five years ago women did not ask for freedom.  They asked
+for&mdash;love."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I want to find freedom in my love.  Not be bound as Porter wants
+to bind me.  He'd put me on a pedestal and worship me, and I'd rather
+stand shoulder to shoulder with my husband and be his comrade.  I don't
+want him to look up too far, or to look down as Gordon looks down on
+Constance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Looks down?  Why, he adores her, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, he loves her.  And he'll do everything for her, but he will do it
+as if she were a child.  He won't ask her opinion in any vital matter.
+He won't share his big interests with her, and so he'll never discover
+the big fine womanliness.  And she'll shrivel to his measure of her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head, smiling.  "Don't analyze too much, Mary.
+Men and women are human&mdash;and you may lose yourself in a search for the
+Ideal."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you know what Porter calls me, Aunt Isabelle?  Contrary Mary.  He
+says I never do things the way the people expect.  Yet I do them the
+way that I must.  It is as if some force were inside of me&mdash;driving
+me&mdash;on."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stood up as she said it, stretching out her arms in an eager
+gesture.  "Aunt Isabelle, if I were a man, there'd be something in the
+world for me to do.  Yet here I am, making ends meet, holding up my
+part of the housekeeping with Susan Jenks, and taking from the hands of
+my rich friends such pleasures as I dare accept without return."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle pulled her down beside her.  "Rebellious Mary," she said,
+"who is going to tame you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They laughed a little, clinging to each other, and than Mary said, "You
+must go to bed, Aunt Isabelle.  I'm keeping you up shamefully."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They kissed again and separated, and Mary made ready for bed.  She took
+off her cap, and all her lovely hair fell about her.  That was another
+of her contrary ways.  She and Constance had been taught to braid it
+neatly, but from little girlhood Mary had protested, and on going to
+bed with two prim pigtails had been known to wake up in the middle of
+the night and take them down, only to be discovered in the morning with
+all her fair curls in a tangle.  Scolding had not availed.  Once, as
+dire punishment, the curls had been cut off.  But Mary had rejoiced.
+"It makes me look like a boy," she had told her mother, calmly, "and I
+like it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Another of her little girl fancies had been to say her prayers aloud.
+She said them that way to-night, kneeling by her bed with her fair head
+on her folded hands.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then she turned out the light, and drew her curtains back.  As she
+looked out at the driving rain, the flare of the street lamp showed a
+motionless figure on the terrace.  For a moment she peered,
+palpitating, then flew into Aunt Isabelle's room.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's some one in the garden."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps it's Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Didn't he come with you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No.  He went on with Leila and the General."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But it is two o'clock, Aunt Isabelle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I didn't know; I thought perhaps he had come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Going back into her room, Mary threw on her blue dressing-gown and
+slippers and opened her door.  The light was still burning in the hall.
+Barry always turned it out when he came.  She stood undecided, then
+started down the back stairs, but halted as the door opened and a dark
+figure appeared.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger Poole looked up at her.  "It isn't your brother," he said.  "I&mdash;I
+must beg your pardon for disturbing you.  I could not sleep, and I went
+out&mdash;&mdash;"  He stopped and stammered.  Poised there above him with all
+the wonder of her unbound hair about her, she was like some celestial
+vision.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She smiled at him.  "It doesn't matter," she said; "please don't
+apologize.  It was foolish of me to be&mdash;frightened.  But I had
+forgotten that there was any one else in the house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was unconscious of the effect of her words.  But his soul shrank
+within him.  To her he was the lodger who paid the rent.  To him she
+was, well, just now she was, to him, the Blessed Damosel!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Faintly in the distance they heard the closing of a door.  "It's
+Barry," Mary said, and suddenly a wave of self-consciousness swept over
+her.  What would Barry think to find her at this hour talking to Roger
+Poole?  And what would he think of Roger Poole, who walked in the
+garden on a rainy night?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger saw her confusion.  "I'll turn out this light," he said, "and
+wait&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And she waited, too, in the darkness until Barry was safe in his own
+room, then she spoke softly.  "Thank you so much," she said, and was
+gone.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap05"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER V
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice&mdash;and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Since the night of his arrival, Roger had not intruded upon the family
+circle.  He had read hostility in Barry's eyes as the boy had looked up
+at him; and Mary, in spite of her friendliness, had forgotten that he was
+in the house!  Well, they had set the pace, and he would keep to it.
+Here in the tower he could live alone&mdash;yet not be lonely, for the books
+were there&mdash;and they brought forgetfulness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took long walks through the city, now awakening to social and
+political activities.  Back to town came the folk who had fled from the
+summer heat; back came the members of House and of Senate, streaming in
+from North, South, East and West for the coming Congress.  Back came the
+office-seekers and the pathetic patient group whose claims were waiting
+for the passage of some impossible bill.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There came, too, the sightseers and trippers, sweeping from one end of
+the town to the other, climbing the dome of the Capitol, walking down the
+steps of the Monument, venturing into the White House, piloted through
+the Bureau where the money is made, riding on "rubber-neck wagons,"
+sailing about in taxis, stampeding Mt. Vernon, bombarding Fort Myer, and
+doing it all gloriously under golden November skies.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And because of the sightseers and statesmen, and the folk who had been
+away for the summer, the shops began to take on beauty.  Up F Street and
+around Fourteenth into H swept the eager procession, and all the windows
+were abloom for them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger walked, too, in the country.  In other lands, or at least so their
+poets have it, November is the month of chill and dreariness.  But to the
+city on the Potomac it comes with soft pink morning mists and toward
+sunset, with amethystine vistas.  And if, beyond the city, the fields are
+frosted, it is frost of a feathery whiteness which melts in the glory of
+a warmer noon.  And if the trees are bare, there is yet pale yellow under
+foot and pale rose, where the leaves wait for the winter winds which
+shall whirl them later in a mad dance like brown butterflies.  And
+there's the green of the pines, and the flaming red of five-fingered
+creepers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was on a sunny November day, therefore, as he followed Rock Creek
+through the Park that Roger came to the old Mill where a little tea room
+supplied afternoon refreshment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As it was far away from car lines, its patronage came largely from those
+who arrived in motors or on horseback, and a few courageous pedestrians.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Here Roger sat down to rest, ordering a rather substantial repast, for
+the long walk had made him hungry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was while he waited that a big car arrived with five passengers.  He
+recognized Porter Bigelow at once, and there were besides two older men
+and two young women.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The taller of the two young women had eyes that roved.  She had blue
+black hair, and she wore black&mdash;a small black hat with a thin curved
+plume, and a tailored suit cut on lines which accentuated her height and
+slenderness.  Her furs were of leopard skins.  Her cheeks were touched
+with high color under her veil.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The other girl had also dark hair.  But she was small and bird-like.
+From head to foot she was in a deep dark pink that, in the wool of her
+coat and the chiffon of her veil, gave back the hue of the rose which was
+pinned to her muff.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it was on the girl in black that Roger fixed his eyes.  Where had he
+seen her?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They chose a table near him, and passed within the touch of his hand.
+Porter did not recognize him.  The tall man in the old overcoat and soft
+hat was not linked in his memory with that moment of meeting in Mary's
+dining-room.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Everybody mixes up our names, Porter," the girl with the rose was saying
+as they sat down; "the girls did at school, didn't they, Lilah?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes," the girl in black did not need many words with her eyes to talk
+for her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Was it big Lilah and little Leila?" Porter asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," the dark eyes above the leopard muff widened and held his gaze.
+"It was dear Leila, and dreadful Lilah.  I used to shock them, you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The three men laughed.  "What did you do?" demanded Porter, leaning
+forward a little.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Men always leaned toward Delilah Jeliffe.  She drew them even while she
+repelled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I smoked cigarettes, for one thing," she said; "everybody does it now.
+But then&mdash;I came near being expelled for it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The little rose girl broke in hotly.  "I think it is horrid still,
+Lilah," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lilah smiled and shrugged.  "But that wasn't the worst.  One day&mdash;I
+eloped."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was making them all listen.  The old men and the young one, and the
+man at the other table.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I eloped with a boy from Prep.  He was nineteen, and I was two years
+younger.  We started by moonlight in Romeo's motor car&mdash;it was great fun.
+But the clergyman wouldn't marry us.  I think he guessed that we were a
+pair of kiddies from school&mdash;and he scolded us and sent me back in a
+taxi&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The tall, thin old gentleman was protesting.  "My dear&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you didn't know, Daddy darling," she said.  "I got back before I was
+discovered, and let myself in by the door I had unlocked.  But I couldn't
+keep it from the girls&mdash;it was such fun to make them&mdash;shiver."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And what became of Romeo?" Porter asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He found another Juliet&mdash;a lovely little blonde and they are living
+happy ever after."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila's eyes were round.  "But I don't see," she began.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course you don't, duckie.  To me, the whole thing was an adventure
+along the road&mdash;to you, it would have been a heart-break."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her words came clearly to Roger.  That, then, was what love meant to some
+women&mdash;an adventure along the road.  One man served for pleasuring, until
+at some curve in the highway she met another.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lilah was challenging her audience.  "And now you see why I was dreadful
+Lilah.  I fit the name they had for me, don't I?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her question was put at Porter, and he answered it.  "It is women who set
+the pace for us," he said; "if they adventure, we venture.  If they lead,
+we follow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+General Dick broke in.  With his halo of white hair and his pink face, he
+looked like an indignant cherub.  "The way you young people treat serious
+subjects is appalling;" then he felt his little daughter's hand upon his
+arm.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Lilah is always saying things that she doesn't mean, Dad.  Please don't
+take her seriously."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nobody takes me seriously," said Lilah, "and that's why nobody knows me
+as I really am."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know you," said her father, "and you're like a little mare that I used
+to drive out on the ranch.  As long as I'd let her have her head, she was
+lovely.  But let me try to curb her, and she'd kick over the traces."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They all laughed at that; then their tea came, and a great plate of
+toast, and the conversation grew intermittent and less interesting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet the man at the other table had his attention again arrested when
+Lilah said to Porter, as she drew on her gloves:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We are invited to Mary Ballard's for Thanksgiving, and you're to be
+there."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes&mdash;mother and father are going South, so I can escape the family
+feast."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary Ballard is&mdash;charming&mdash;&mdash;"  It was said tentatively, with an upward
+sweep of her lashes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Porter did not answer; and as he stood behind her chair, there was a
+deeper flush on his florid cheeks.  Mary's name he held in his heart.  It
+was rarely on his lips.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Mary had not wanted Delilah and her father for Thanksgiving.  "But we
+can't have Leila and the General without them," she said to Barry, after
+a conversation with Leila over the telephone, "and it wouldn't seem like
+Thanksgiving without the Dicks."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Delilah," said Barry, comfortably, "is good fun.  I'm glad she is
+coming."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She may be good fun," said Mary, slowly, "but she isn't&mdash;our kind."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila said that to me," Barry told her.  "I don't quite see what you
+girls mean."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, you wouldn't," Mary agreed; "men don't see.  But I should think
+when you look at Leila you'd know the difference.  Leila is like a little
+wild rose, and Delilah Jeliffe is a&mdash;tulip."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I like tulips," murmured Barry, audaciously.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary laughed.  What was the use?  Barry was Barry.  And Delilah Jeliffe
+would flit in and out of his life as other girls had flitted; but always
+there would be for him&mdash;Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If you were a woman," she said, "you'd know by her clothes, and the pink
+of her cheeks, and by the way she does her hair&mdash;she's just a little too
+much of&mdash;everything&mdash;Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's just enough of Delilah Jeliffe," said Barry, "to keep a man
+guessing."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Guessing what?" Mary demanded with a spark in her eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, just guessing," easily.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Whether she likes you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry nodded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But why should you want to know, Barry?  You're not in love with her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His blue eyes danced.  "Love hasn't anything to do with it, little solemn
+sister; it's just in the&mdash;game."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Later they had a tilt over inviting Mary's lodger.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It seems so inhospitable to let him spend the day up there alone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't see how he could possibly expect to dine with us," Barry said,
+hotly.  "You don't know anything about him, Mary.  And I agree with
+Porter&mdash;a man's bank reference isn't sufficient for social recognition.
+And anyhow he may not have the right kind of clothes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We are to have dinner at three o'clock," she said, "just as mother
+always had it on Thanksgiving Day.  If you don't want me to ask Roger
+Poole, I won't.  But I think you are an awful snob, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her eyes were blazing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Now what have I done to deserve that?" her brother demanded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You haven't treated him civilly," Mary said.  "In a sense he's a guest
+in our house, and you haven't been up to his rooms since he came&mdash;and
+he's a gentleman."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How do you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because I do."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yet the other day you hinted that Delilah Jeliffe wasn't a lady, not in
+your sense of the word&mdash;and that I couldn't see the difference because
+was a man.  I'll let you have your opinion of Delilah Jeliffe if you'll
+let me have mine of Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So Mary compromised by having Roger down for the evening.  "We shall be
+just a family party for dinner," she said.  "But later, we are asking
+some others for candle-lighting time.  We want everybody to come prepared
+to tell a story or recite, or to sing, or play&mdash;in the dark at first, and
+then with the candles."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His pride urged him to refuse&mdash;to spurn this offer of hospitality from
+the girl who had once forgotten that he was in the house!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But as he stood there on the threshold of the Tower Rooms, her smile
+seemed to draw him, her voice called him, and he was young&mdash;and
+desperately lonely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So as he dressed carefully on Thanksgiving afternoon, he had a sense of
+exhilaration.  For one night he would let himself go.  He would be
+himself.  No one should snub him.  Snubs came from self-consciousness&mdash;he
+who was above them need not see them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When at last he entered the drawing-room, it was unillumined except for
+the flickering flame of a fire of oak logs.  The guests, assembling
+wraith-like among the shadows, were given, each, an unlighted candle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger found a place in a big chair beside the piano, and sat there alone,
+interested and curious.  And presently Pittiwitz, stealing toward the
+hearth, arched her back under his hand, and he reached down and lifted
+her to his knee, where she stretched herself, sphinx-like, her amber eyes
+shining in the dusk.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With the last guest seated, Barry stood before them, and gave the key to
+the situation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Everybody is to light a candle with some stunt," he explained.  "You
+know the idea.  All of you have some parlor tricks, and you're to show
+them off."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There were no immediate volunteers, so Barry pounced on Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You begin," he said, and drew her into the circle of the firelight.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She looked very childish and sweet as she stood there with her unlighted
+candle, and sang a lullaby.  Mary Ballard played her accompaniment
+softly, sitting so near to Roger in his dim corner that the folds of her
+velvet gown swept his foot.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And when the song was finished, Leila touched a match to her candle and
+stood on tiptoe to set it on the corner of the mantel, where it glimmered
+bravely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+General Dick and Mr. Jeliffe came next.  Solemnly they placed two
+cushions on the hearth-rug, solemnly they knelt thereon, facing each
+other.  Then intently and conscientiously they played the old game of
+"Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold."  The General's fat hands met
+Mr. Jeliffe's thin ones alternately and in unison.  Not a mistake did
+they make, and, ending out of breath, the General found it hard to rise,
+and had to be picked by Porter, like a plump feather pillow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the candles were three!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Barry and Delilah danced, a dance which they had practiced together.
+It had in it just a hint of wildness, and just a hint of sophistication,
+and Delilah in her dress of sapphire chiffon, with its flaring tunic of
+silver net, seemed in the nebulous light like some strange bird of the
+night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the candles were five!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Following, Leila went to the piano, and Porter and Mary gave a minuet.
+They had learned it at dancing-school, and it had been years since they
+had danced it.  But they did it very well; Porter's somewhat stiff
+bearing accorded with its stateliness, and Mary, having added to her
+green velvet gown a little Juliet cap of lace and a lace fan, showed the
+radiant, almost boyish beauty which had charmed Roger on the night of the
+wedding.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His pulses throbbed as he watched her.  They were a well-matched pair,
+this young millionaire and the pretty maid.  And as their orderly steps
+went through the dance, so would their orderly lives, if they married,
+continue to the end.  But what could Porter Bigelow teach Mary Ballard of
+the things which touch the stars?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the candles were seven!  And the spirit of the carnival was upon
+the company.  Song was followed by story, and story by song&mdash;until at
+last the room seemed to swim in a golden mist.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And through that mist Mary saw Roger Poole!  He was leaning forward a
+little, and there was about him the air of a man who waited.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She spoke impetuously.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mr. Poole," she said, "please&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was not a trace of awkwardness, not a hint of self-consciousness in
+his manner as he answered her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May I sit here?" he asked.  "You see, my pussy cat holds me, and as I
+shall tell you about a cat, she gives the touch of local color."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And then he began, his right hand resting on the gray cat's head, his
+left upon his knee.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He used no gestures, yet as he went on, the room became still with the
+stillness of a captured audience.  Here was no stumbling elocution, but a
+controlled and perfect method, backed by a voice which soared and sang
+and throbbed and thrilled&mdash;the voice either of a great orator, or of a
+great actor.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The story that he told was of Whittington and his cat.  But it was not
+the old nursery rhyme.  He gave it as it is written by one of England's
+younger poets.  Since he lacked the time for it all, he sketched the
+theme, rounding it out here and there with a verse&mdash;and it seemed to Mary
+that, as he spoke, all the bells of London boomed!
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"'_Flos Mercatorum_,' moaned the bell of All Hallowes,<BR>
+'There was he an orphan, O, a little lad, alone!'<BR>
+'Then we all sang,' echoed happy St. Saviour's,<BR>
+'Called him and lured him, and made him our own.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now they saw the little lad stealing toward the big city, saw all the
+color and glow as he entered upon its enchantment, saw his meeting with
+the green-gowned Alice, saw him cold and hungry, faint and footsore, saw
+him aswoon on a door-step.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"'Alice,' roared a voice, and then, O like a lilied angel,<BR>
+Leaning from the lighted door, a fair face unafraid,<BR>
+Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise<BR>
+Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Touching now a lighter note, his voice laughed through the lovely lines;
+of the ship which was to sail beyond the world; of how each man staked
+such small wealth as he possessed; "for in those days Marchaunt
+adventurers shared with their prentices the happy chance of each new
+venture."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Whittington had nothing to give.  "Not a groat," he tells sweet
+Alice.  "I staked my last groat in a cat!"
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"'Ay, but we need a cat,'<BR>
+The Captain said.  So when the painted ship<BR>
+Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames,<BR>
+A gray tail waved upon the misty poop,<BR>
+And Whittington had his venture on the seas!"
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The ringing words brought tumultuous applause.  Pittiwitz, startled, sat
+up and blinked.  People bent to each other, asking: "Who is this Roger
+Poole?"  Under his breath Barry was saying, boyishly, "Gee!"  He might
+still wonder about Mary's lodger, he would never again look down on him.
+And Delilah Jeliffe sitting next to Barry murmured, "I've heard that
+voice before&mdash;but where?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Again the bells boomed as the story swept on to the fortune which came to
+the prentice lad&mdash;the price paid for his cat in Barbary by a king whose
+house was rich in gems but sorely plagued with rats and mice.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Whittington's offer of his wealth to Alice, her refusal, and so&mdash;to
+the end.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's.<BR>
+'Tell it and be quick,' laughed the prentices below!<BR>
+'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!<BR>
+Peal for a wedding,' said the Big Bell of Bow."
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Roger stopped there, and with Pittiwitz in his arms, rose to light his
+candle.  All about him people were saying things, but their words seemed
+to come to him through a beating darkness.  There was only one
+face&mdash;Mary's, and she was leaning toward him, or was it above him?  "It
+was wonderful," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is a great poem."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't mean that&mdash;it was the way you&mdash;gave it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Outwardly calm, he carried his candle and set it in its place.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then he came back to Mary&mdash;Mary with the shining eyes.  This was his
+night!  "You liked it, then?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a moment she did not speak, then she said again, "It was wonderful."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There were other people about them now, and Roger met them with the ease
+of a man of the world.  Even Barry had to admit that his manners were
+irreproachable, and his clothes.  As for his looks, he was not to be
+matched with Mary's auburn Apollo&mdash;one cannot compare a royal stag and a
+tawny-maned lion!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+During the rest of the program, Roger sat enthroned at Mary's side, and
+listened.  He watched the candles, an increasing row of little pointed
+lights.  He went down to supper, and again sat beside Mary&mdash;and knew not
+what he ate.  He saw Porter's hot eyes upon him.  He knew that to-morrow
+he must doff his honors and be as he had been before.  However, "who
+knows but the world may end to-night," he told himself, desperately.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus he played with Fate, and Fate, turning the tables, brought him at
+last to Delilah Jeliffe as the guests were saying "good-bye."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Somewhere I've heard your voice," she said with the upsweep of her
+lashes.  "It isn't the kind that one is likely to forget."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yet you have forgotten," he parried.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall remember," she said.  "I want to remember&mdash;and I shall want to
+hear it again."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shook his head.  "It was my&mdash;swan song&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shrugged.  "One isn't always in the mood&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now it was she who shook her head.  "It isn't a mood with you, it's
+your life."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She had him there, so he carried the conversation lightly to another
+topic.  "I had not thought to give Whittington until I saw Pittiwitz."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And Mary's green gown?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Again he parried.  "It was dark.  I could not see the color of her gown."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But 'love has eyes.'"  The words were light and she meant them lightly.
+And she went away laughing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Roger did not laugh.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And when Mary came to look for him he was gone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And up-stairs, his evening stripped of its glamour, he told himself that
+he had been a fool!  The world would <I>not</I> end to-night.  He had to live
+the appointed length of his days, through all the dreary years.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap06"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER VI
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR><P CLASS="noindent">
+
+<P>
+On Christmas Eve, Mary and Susan Jenks brought up to Roger a little
+tree.  It was just a fir plume, but it was gay with tinsel and spicy
+with the fragrance of the woods, and it was topped by a wee wax angel.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In vain Mary and Barry and even Aunt Isabelle had urged Roger to join
+their merrymaking downstairs.  Aunt Frances, having delayed her trip
+abroad until January, was coming; and except for Leila and General Dick
+and Porter Bigelow, it was to be strictly a family affair.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Roger had refused.  "I'm not one of you," he had told Mary.  "I'm a
+bee, not a butterfly, and I shouldn't have joined you on Thanksgiving
+night.  When you're alone, if I may, I'll come down&mdash;but please&mdash;not
+with your guests."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had not joined them often, however, and he had never again shown the
+mood which had possessed him when his voice had charmed them.  Hence
+they grew, as the days went on, to know him as quiet, self-contained
+man, whose eyes burned now and then, when some subject was broached
+which moved him, but who, for the most part, showed at least an outward
+serenity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They grew to like him, too, and to depend upon him.  Even Aunt Isabelle
+went to him for advice.  He had such an attentive manner, and when he
+spoke, he gave his opinion with an air of comforting authority.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But always he avoided Porter Bigelow, he avoided Leila, and most of
+all, he avoided Delilah Jeliffe, although that persistent young person
+would have invaded the Tower Rooms, if Mary had not warned her away.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He is very busy, Lilah," she said, "and when he isn't, he comes down
+here."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't you ever go up?" Delilah's tone was curious.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," said Mary, "Why should I?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah shrugged.  "If a man," she said, "had looked at me as he looked
+at you on Thanksgiving night, I should be, to say the
+least&mdash;interested&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's head was held high.  "I like Roger Poole," she said, "and he's a
+gentleman.  But I'm not thinking about the look in his eyes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet she did think of it, after all, for such seed does the Delilah-type
+of woman sow.  She thought of him, but only with a little wonder&mdash;for
+Mary was as yet unawakened&mdash;Porter's passionate pleading, the magic of
+Roger Poole's voice&mdash;these had not touched the heart which still waited.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Since Mahomet wouldn't come to the mountain," Mary remarked to her
+lodger as Susan deposited her burden, "the mountain had to come to
+Mahomet.  And here's a bit of mistletoe for your door, and of holly for
+your window."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took the wreaths from her.  "You are like the spirit of Christmas in
+your green gown."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This?"  She was wearing the green velvet&mdash;with a low collar of lace.
+"Oh, I've had this for ages, but I like it&mdash;&mdash;"  She broke off to say,
+wistfully, "It seems as if you ought to come down&mdash;as if up here you'd
+be lonely."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks, hanging the mistletoe over the door, was out of range of
+their voices.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am lonely," Roger said, "but now with my little tree, I shall forget
+everything but your kindness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't you love Christmas?" Mary asked him.  "It's such a friendly
+time, with everybody thinking of everybody else.  I had to hunt a lot
+before I found the wax angel.  It needed such a little one&mdash;but I
+always want one on my tree.  When I was a child, mother used to tell me
+that the angel was bringing a message of peace and good will to our
+house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If the little angel brings me your good will, I shall feel that he has
+performed his mission."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, but you have it," brightly.  "We are all so glad you are here.
+Even Barry, and Barry hated the idea at first of our having a lodger.
+But he likes you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And I like Barry," he said.  "He is youth&mdash;incarnate."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He's a dear," she agreed.  Then a shadow came into her eyes.  "But
+he's such a boy, and&mdash;and he's spoiled.  Everybody's too good to him.
+Mother was&mdash;and father, though father tried not to be.  And Leila is,
+and Constance&mdash;and Aunt Isabelle excuses him, and even Susan Jenks."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks, having hung all the wreaths, had departed, and was not
+there to hear this mention of her shortcomings.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I see&mdash;and you?" smiling.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She drew a long breath.  "I'm trying to play Big Sister&mdash;and sometimes
+I'm afraid I'm more like a big brother&mdash;I haven't the&mdash;patience."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His attentive face invited further confidence.  It was the face of a
+man who had listened to many confidences, and instinctively she felt
+that others had been helped by him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You see I want Barry to pass the Bar examination.  All of the men of
+our family have been lawyers, But Barry won't study, and he has taken a
+position in the Patent Office.  He's wasting these best years as a
+clerk."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then she remembered, and begged, "Forgive me&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's nothing to forgive," he said.  "I suppose I am wasting my
+years as a clerk in the Treasury Department&mdash;but there's this
+difference, your brother's life is before him&mdash;mine is behind me.  His
+ambitions are yet to be fulfilled.  I have no&mdash;ambitions."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You don't mean that&mdash;you can't mean it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because you're a man!  Oh, I should have been the man of our
+family&mdash;and Barry and Constance should have been the girls."  Her eyes
+blazed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You think then, as I heard you say the other night on the stairs, that
+the world is ours; yet we men let it stand still."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her head went up.  "Yes.  Perhaps you do have to fight for what you
+get.  But I'd rather die fighting than smothered."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He laughed a good boyish laugh.  "Does Barry know that you feel that
+way?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm afraid," penitently, "that I make him feel it, sometimes.  And he
+doesn't know that it is because I care so much.  That it is because I
+want him to be like&mdash;father."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled into her misty eyes.  "Perhaps if you weren't so militant&mdash;in
+your methods&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, that's the trouble with Barry.  Everybody's too good to him.  And
+when I try to counteract it, Barry says that I nag.  But he doesn't
+understand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her voice broke, and by some subtle intuition he was aware that her
+burden was heavier than she was willing to admit.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stood up and held out her hand.  "Thank you so much&mdash;for letting me
+talk to you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took her hand and stood looking down at her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Will you remember that always&mdash;when you need to talk things out&mdash;that
+the Tower Room&mdash;is waiting?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now there were steps dancing up the stairs, and Barry whirled in
+with Little-Lovely Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, "we are ready to light the tree, and Aunt Frances is
+having fits because you aren't down.  You know she always has fits when
+things are delayed.  Poole, you are a selfish hermit to stay off up
+here with a tree of your own."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger, who had stepped forward to speak to Leila, shook his head.  "I
+don't deserve to be invited.  And you're all too good to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, but we're not," Leila spoke in her pretty childish way; "we'd love
+to have you down.  Everybody's just crazy about you, Mr. Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They shouted at that.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila," Barry demanded, "are you crazy about him?  Tell me now and get
+the agony over."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila, tilting herself on her pink slipper toes almost crowed with
+delight at his teasing: "I said, <I>everybody</I>&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry advanced to where she stood in the doorway.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila Dick," he announced, "you're under the mistletoe, and you can't
+escape, and I'm going to kiss you.  It's my ancient and hereditary
+privilege&mdash;isn't it, Poole?  It's my ancient and hereditary privilege,"
+he repeated, and now he was bending over her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry," Mary expostulated, "behave yourself."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it was Leila who stopped him.  Her little hands held him off, her
+face was white.  "Barry," she whispered, "Barry&mdash;<I>please</I>&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He dropped her hands.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You blessed baby," he said, with all his laughter gone.  "You're like
+a little sweet saint in an altar shrine!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then, with another sudden change of mood, he whirled her away as
+quickly as he had come, and Mary, following, stopped on the threshold
+to say to Roger:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We shall all be away to-morrow.  We are to dine at General Dick's.
+But I am going to church in the morning&mdash;the six o'clock service.  It's
+lovely with the snow and the stars.  There'll be just Barry and me.
+Won't you come?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He hesitated.  Then, "No," he said, "no," and lest she should think him
+unappreciative, he added, "I never go to church."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She came back to him and stood by the fire.  "Don't you believe in it?"
+She was plainly troubled for him.  "Don't you believe in the angels and
+the shepherds, and the wise men, and the Babe in the Manger?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," he said dully, "I don't believe."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh," it was almost a cry, "then what does Christmas mean to you?  What
+can it mean to anybody who doesn't believe in the Babe and the Star in
+the East?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It means this, Mary Ballard," he said, impetuously, "that out of all
+my unbelief&mdash;I believe in you&mdash;in your friendliness.  And that is my
+star shining just now in the darkness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She would have been less than a woman if she had not been thrilled by
+such a tribute.  So she blushed shyly.  "I'm glad," she said and smiled
+up at him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But as she went down-stairs, the smile faded.  It was as if the shadow
+of the Tower Rooms were upon her.  As if the loneliness and sadness of
+Roger Poole had become hers.  As if his burden was added to her other
+burdens.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances, more regal than ever in gold and amethyst brocade, was
+presiding over a mountainous pile of white boxes, behind which the
+unlighted tree spread its branches.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"My child," she said reprovingly, as Mary entered, "I wonder if you
+were ever in time for anything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And Porter whispered in Mary's ear as he led her to the piano: "Is this
+a merry Christmas or a Contrary-Mary Christmas?  You look as if you had
+the weight of the world on your shoulders."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shook her head.  Tears were very near the surface.  He saw it and
+was jealously unhappy.  What had brought her in this mood from the
+Tower Rooms?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Barry turned off the lights, and in the darkness Mary struck
+the first chords and began to sing, "Holy Night&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As her voice throbbed through the stillness, little stars shone out
+upon the tree until it was all in shining glory.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Up-stairs, Roger heard Mary singing.  He went to his window and drew
+back the curtains.  Outside the world was wrapped in snow.  The lights
+from the lower windows shone on the fountain, and showed the little
+bronze boy in a winding sheet of white.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it was not the little bronze boy that Roger Poole saw.  It was
+another boy&mdash;himself&mdash;singing in a dim church in a big city, and his
+soul was in the words.  And when he knelt to pray, it seemed to him
+that the whole world prayed.  He was bathed in reverence.  In his
+boyish soul there was no hint of unbelief&mdash;no doubt of the divine
+mystery.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He saw himself again in a church.  And now it was he who spoke to the
+people of the Shepherds and the Star.  And he knew that he was making
+them believe.  That he was bringing to them the assurance which
+possessed his own soul&mdash;and again there were candles on the altar, and
+again he sang, and the choir boys sang, and the song was the one that
+Mary Ballard was singing&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He saw himself once more in a church.  But this time there was no
+singing.  There were no candles, no light except such as came faintly
+through the leaded panes.  He was alone in the dimness, and he stood in
+the pulpit and looked around at the empty pews.  Then the light went
+out behind the windows, and he knelt in the darkness; but not to pray.
+His head was hidden in his arms.  Since then he had never shed a tear,
+and he had never gone to church.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+<HR WIDTH="60%" ALIGN="center">
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Mary's song was followed by carols in which the other voices
+joined&mdash;Porter's and Barry's and Leila's; General Dick's breathy tenor,
+Aunt Isabelle's quaver, Aunt Frances' dominant note&mdash;with Susan Jenks
+and the colored maid who helped her on such occasions, piping up like
+two melodious blackbirds in the hall.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then General Dick played Santa Claus, handing out the parcels with
+felicitous little speeches.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Constance had sent a big box from London.  There were fads and
+fripperies from Grace Clendenning in Paris, while Aunt Frances had
+evidently raided Fifth Avenue and had brought away its treasures.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It looks like a French shop," said Leila, happy in her own gifts of
+gloves and silk stockings and slipper buckles and beads, and the
+crowning bliss of a little pearl heart from Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds
+and emeralds.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty.  "It's a
+genuine antique?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's.  She belonged
+to an old French family.  My grandfather met her when he was in the
+diplomatic service.  He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my
+hair."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's a lovely thing.  But&mdash;Porter&mdash;it mustn't bind me to anything.  I
+want to be free."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You are free.  Do you remember when you were a kiddie that I gave you
+a penny ring out of my popcorn bag?  You didn't think that ring tied
+you to anything, did you?  Well, this is just another penny prize
+package."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she wore it on her right hand and when he said "Good-night," he
+lifted the hand and kissed it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Girl, dear, may this be the merriest Christmas ever!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the tears overflowed.  They were alone in the lower hall and
+there was no one to see.  "Oh, Porter," she wailed, "I'm missing
+Constance dreadfully&mdash;it isn't Christmas&mdash;without her.  It came over me
+all at once&mdash;when I was trying to think that I was happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Poor little Contrary Mary&mdash;if you'd only let me take care of you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shook her head.  "I didn't mean to be&mdash;silly, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're not silly."  Then after a silence, "Shall you go to early
+service in the morning?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May I go?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course.  Barry's going, too."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mean that you won't let me go with you alone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I mean nothing of the kind.  Barry always goes.  He used to do it to
+please mother, and now he does it&mdash;for remembrance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm so jealous of my moments alone with you.  Why can't Leila stay
+with you to-night, then there will be four of us, and I can have you to
+myself.  I can bring the car, if you'd rather."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, I like to walk.  It's so lovely and solemn."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Be sure to ask Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She promised, and he went away, having to look in at a dance given by
+one of his mother's friends; and Mary, returning to join the others,
+pondered, a little wistfully, on the fact that Porter Bigelow should be
+so eager for a privilege which Roger Poole had just declined.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap07"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER VII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and
+is Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon
+the Stairs.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year.  But before she went she
+sounded Aunt Isabelle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"About Porter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him.  Anybody can see that he's
+dead in love with her, Isabelle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't think Mary wants to marry anybody.  She's an independent
+little creature.  She should have been the boy, Frances."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I wish to heaven she had," Aunt Frances' tone was fervent.  "I can't
+see any future for Barry, unless he marries Leila.  If he were not so
+irresponsible, I might do something for him.  But Barry is such a
+will-o'-the-wisp."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced
+upon her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible.  He's&mdash;&mdash;  Did you notice
+on Christmas Day, Isabelle&mdash;that after dinner he wasn't himself?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle had noticed.  And it was not the first time.  Her quick
+eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden.  She had not
+needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that
+house.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips.  She would not tell Frances
+anything.  They were dear children.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He's just a boy, Frances," she said, deprecatingly, "and I am sorry
+that General Dick put temptation in his way."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't blame the General.  If Barry's weak, no one can make him strong
+but himself.  I wish he had some of Porter Bigelow's steadiness.  Mary
+won't look at Porter, and he's dead in love with her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps in time she may."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary's like her father," Aunt Frances said shortly.  "John Ballard
+might have been rich when he died, if he hadn't been such a dreamer.
+Mary calls herself practical&mdash;but her head is full of moonshine."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances made this arraignment with an uncomfortable memory of a
+conversation with Mary the day before.  They had been shopping, and had
+lunched together at a popular tea room.  It was while they sat in their
+secluded corner that Aunt Frances had introduced in a roundabout way
+the topic which obsessed her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am glad that Constance is so happy, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She ought to be," Mary responded; "it's her honeymoon."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If you would follow her example and marry Porter Bigelow, my mind
+would be at rest."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I don't want to marry Porter, Aunt Frances.  I don't want to marry
+anybody."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances raised her gold lorgnette, "If you don't marry," she
+demanded, "how do you expect to live?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't understand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I mean who is going to pay your bills for the rest of your life?
+Barry isn't making enough to support you, and I can't imagine that
+you'd care to be dependent on Gordon Richardson.  And the house is
+rapidly losing its value.  The neighborhood isn't what it was when your
+father bought it, and you can't rent rooms when nobody wants to come
+out here to live.  And then what?  It's a woman's place to marry when
+she meets a man who can take care of her&mdash;and you'll find that you
+can't pick Porter Bigelows off every bush&mdash;not in Washington."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus spoke Worldly-Wisdom, not mincing words, and back came Youth and
+Romance, passionately.  "Aunt Frances, a woman hasn't any right to
+marry just because she thinks it is her best chance.  She hasn't any
+right to make a man feel that he's won her when she's just little and
+mean and mercenary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That sounds all right," said the indignant dame opposite her, "but as
+I said before, if you don't marry,&mdash;what are you going to do?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Faced by that cold question, Mary met it defiantly.  "If the worst
+comes, I can work.  Other women work."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You haven't the training or the experience." Aunt Frances told her
+coldly; "don't be silly, Mary.  You couldn't earn your shoe-strings."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And thus having said all there was to be said, the two ate their salad
+with diminished appetite, and rode home in a taxi in stiff silence.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances' mind roamed back to Aunt Isabelle, and fixed on her as a
+scapegoat.  "She's like you, Isabelle," she said, "with just the
+difference between the ideals of twenty years ago and to-day.  You
+haven't either of you an idea of the world as a real place&mdash;you make
+romance the rule of your lives&mdash;and I'd like to know what you've gotten
+out of it, or what she will."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not afraid for Mary."  There was a defiant ring in Aunt Isabelle's
+voice which amazed Aunt Frances.  "She'll make things come right.  She
+has what I never had, Frances.  She has strength and courage."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was this conversation with Aunt Frances which caused Mary, in the
+weeks that followed, to bend for hours over a yellow pad on which she
+made queer hieroglyphics.  And it was through these hieroglyphics that
+she entered upon a new phase of her friendship with Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had gone to work one morning, haggard after a sleepless night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he approached the Treasury, the big building seemed to loom up
+before him like a prison.  What, after all, were those thousands who
+wended their way every morning to the great beehives of Uncle Sam but
+slaves chained to an occupation which was deadening?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He flung the question later at the little stenographer who sat next to
+him.  "Miss Terry," he asked, "how long have you been here?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She looked up at him, brightly.  She was short and thin, with a
+sprinkle of gray in her hair.  But she was well-groomed and nicely
+dressed in her mannish silk shirt and gray tailored skirt.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Twenty years," she said, snapping a rubber band about her note-book.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And always at this desk?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, dear, no.  I came in at nine hundred, and now I am getting twelve
+hundred."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But always in this room?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She nodded.  "Yes.  And it is very nice.  Most of the people have been
+here as long as I, and some of them much longer.  There's Major Orr,
+for example, he has been here since just after the War."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you ever feel as if you were serving sentence?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She laughed.  She was not troubled by a vivid imagination.  "It really
+isn't bad for a woman.  There aren't many places with as short hours
+and as good pay."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a woman?  But for a man?  He turned back to his desk.  What would
+he be after twenty years of this?  He waked every morning with the
+day's routine facing him&mdash;knowing that not once in the eight hours
+would there be a demand upon his mentality, not once would there be the
+thrill of real accomplishment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At noon when he saw Miss Terry strew bird seed on the broad window sill
+for the sparrows, he likened it to the diversions of a prisoner in his
+cell.  And, when he ate lunch with a group of fellow clerks in a cheap
+restaurant across the way, he wondered, as they went back, why they
+were spared the lockstep.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In this mood he left the office at half-past four, and passing the
+place where he usually ate, inexpensively, he entered a luxurious
+up-town hotel.  There he read the papers until half-past six; then
+dined in a grill room which permitted informal dress.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Coming out later, he met Barry coming in, linked arm in arm with two
+radiant youths of his own kind and class.  Musketeers of modernity,
+they found their adventures on the city streets, in cafes and cabarets,
+instead of in field and forest and on the battle-field.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry, with a flower in his buttonhole, welcomed Roger uproariously.
+"Here's Whittington," he said.  "You ought to hear his poem, fellows,
+about a little cat.  He had us all hypnotized the other night."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger glanced at him sharply.  His exaggerated manner, the looseness of
+his phrasing, the flush on his cheeks were in strange contrast to his
+usual frank, clean boyishness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Come on, Poole," Barry urged, "we'll motor out in Jerry's car to the
+Country Club, and you can give it to us out there&mdash;about Whittington
+and the little cat."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger declined, and Barry took quick offense.  "Oh, well, if you don't
+want to, you needn't," he said; "four's a crowd, anyhow&mdash;come on,
+fellows."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger, vaguely troubled, watched him until he was lost in the crowd,
+then sighed and turned his steps homeward.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As Roger ascended to his Tower, the house seemed strangely silent.
+Pittiwitz was asleep beside the pot of pink hyacinths.  She sat up,
+yawned, and welcomed him with a little coaxing note.  When he had
+settled himself in his big chair, she came and curled in the corner of
+his arm, and again went to sleep.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Deep in his reading, he was roused an hour later by a knock at his door.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He opened it, to find Mary on the threshold.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May I come in?" she asked, and she seemed breathless.  "It is Susan's
+night out, and Aunt Isabelle is at the opera with some old friends.
+Barry expected to be here with me, but he hasn't come.  And I sat in
+the dining-room&mdash;and waited," she shivered, "until I couldn't stand it
+any more."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She tried to laugh, but he saw that she was very pale.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Please don't think I'm a coward," she begged.  "I've never been that.
+But I seemed suddenly to have a sort of nervous panic, and I thought
+perhaps you wouldn't mind if I sat with you&mdash;until Barry&mdash;came&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm glad he didn't come, if it is going to give me an evening with
+you."  He drew a chair to the fire.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They had talked of many things when she asked, suddenly, "Mr. Poole, I
+wonder if you can tell me&mdash;about the examinations for stenographers in
+the Departments&mdash;are they very rigid?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not very.  Of course they require speed and accuracy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sighed.  "I'm accurate enough, but I wonder if I can ever acquire
+speed."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stared.  "You&mdash;&mdash;?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She nodded.  "I haven't mentioned it to any one.  One's family is so
+hampering sometimes&mdash;they'd all object&mdash;except Aunt Isabelle, but I
+want to be prepared to work, if I ever need to earn my living."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May you never need it," he said, fervently, visions rising of little
+Miss Terry and her machine-made personality.  What had this girl with
+the fair hair and the shining eyes to do with the blank life between
+office walls?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May you never need it," he repeated.  "A woman's place is in the
+home&mdash;it's a man's place to fight the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But if there isn't a man to fight a woman's battles?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There will always be some one to fight yours."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mean that I can&mdash;marry?  But what if I don't care to marry merely
+to be&mdash;supported?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There would have to be other things, of course," gravely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What, for example?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Love."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mean the 'honor and obey' kind?  But don't want that when I marry.
+I want a man to say to me, 'Come, let us fight the battle together.  If
+it's defeat, we'll go down together.  If its victory, we'll win.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This was to him a strange language, yet there was that about it which
+thrilled him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet he insisted, dogmatically, "There are men enough in the world to
+take care of the women, and the women should let them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, they should not.  Suppose I should not marry.  Must I let Barry
+take care of me, or Constance&mdash;and go on as Aunt Isabelle has, eating
+the bread of dependence?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you?  Why, one only needs to look at you to know that there'll be
+a live-happy-ever-after ending to your romance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That's what they thought about Aunt Isabelle.  But she lost her lover,
+and she couldn't love again.  And if she had had an absorbing
+occupation, she would have been saved so much humiliation, so much
+heart-break."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She told him the story with its touching pathos.  "And think of it,"
+she ended, "right here in our garden by the fountain, she saw him for
+the last time."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Chilled by the ghostly breath of dead romance, they sat for a while in
+silence, then Mary said: "So that's why I'm trying to learn
+something&mdash;that will have an earning value.  I can sing and play a
+little, but not enough to make&mdash;money."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sighed, and he set himself to help her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The quickest way," he said, "to acquire speed, is to have some one
+read to you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Aunt Isabelle does sometimes, but it tires her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Let me do it.  I should never tire."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, wouldn't you mind?  Could we practice a little&mdash;now?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And so it began&mdash;the friendship in which he served her, and loved the
+serving.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He read, slowly, liking to see, when he raised his eyes, the slim white
+figure in the big chair, the firelight on the absorbed face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus the time slipped by, until with a start, Mary looked up.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't see what is keeping Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell.  "I saw him
+down-town.  I think he was on his way to the Country Club.  He had been
+dining with some friends."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Men friends?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  He called one of them Jerry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He saw the color rise in her face.  "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry
+promised Constance he'd let those boys alone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling
+with a gripping fear.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This, then, was the burden she was bearing?  And what a brave little
+thing she was to face the world with her head up.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Would you like to have me call the Country Club&mdash;I might be able to
+get your brother on the wire."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh; if you would."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But he was saved the trouble.  For, even while they spoke of him, Barry
+came, and Mary went down to him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice
+was singing&mdash;a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the
+railing.  Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother
+up the lower flight.  Barry had his arm around her, but her face was
+turned from him, and her head drooped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to
+the threshold of the boy's room.  The door opened and shut, and she was
+alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that
+strange song.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then
+turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by
+her upraised arm.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap08"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER VIII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place;
+and in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Whatever Delilah Jeliffe might lack, it was not originality.  The
+apartment which she chose for her winter in Washington was like any
+other apartment when she went into it, but the changes which she
+made&mdash;the things which she added and the things which she took away,
+stamped it at once with her own individuality.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The peacock screen before the fireplace, the cushions of sapphire and
+emerald and old gold on the couch, the mantel swept of all ornament
+except a seven-branched candlestick; these created the first
+impression.  Then one's eyes went to an antique table on which a
+crystal ball, upborne by three bronze monkeys, seemed to gather to
+itself mysteriously all the glow of firelight and candlelight and rich
+color.  At the other end of the table was a low bowl, filled always
+with small saffron-hued roses.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In this room, one morning, late in Lent, Leila Dick sat, looking as out
+of place as an English daisy in a tropical jungle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila did not like the drawn curtains and the dimness.  Outside the sun
+was shining, gloriously, and the sky was a deep and lovely blue.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was glad when Lilah sent for her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You are to come right to her room," the maid announced.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Heavens, child," said the Delilah-beauty, who was combing her hair, "I
+didn't promise to be up with the birds."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The birds were up long ago," Leila perched herself on an old English
+love-seat.  "We're to have lunch before we go to Fort Myer, and it is
+almost one now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lilah yawned, "Is it?" and went on combing her hair with the air of one
+who has hours before her.  She wore a silken négligée of flamingo red
+which matched her surroundings, for this room was as flaming as the
+other was subdued.  Yet the effect was not that of crude color; it was,
+rather, that of color intensified deliberately to produce a contrast.
+Delilah's bedroom was high noon under a blazing sun, the sitting-room
+was midnight under the stars.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With her black hair at last twisted into wonderful coils, Delilah
+surveyed her face reflectively in the mirror, and having decided that
+she needed no further aid from the small jars on her dressing table,
+she turned to her friend.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What shall I wear, Leila?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If I told you," was the calm response, "you wouldn't wear it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah laughed.  "No, I wouldn't.  I simply have to think such things
+out for myself.  But I meant what kind of clothes&mdash;dress up or motor
+things?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter will take us out in his car.  You'll need your heavy coat, and
+something good-looking underneath, for lunch, you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Is Mary Ballard going?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course.  We shouldn't get Porter's car if she weren't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary wasn't with us the day we had tea with him in the Park."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, but she was asked.  Porter never leaves her out."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are they engaged?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, Mary won't be."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She'll never get a better chance," Delilah reflected.  "She isn't
+pretty, and she's rather old style."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila blazed.  "She's beautiful&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To you, duckie, because you love her.  But the average man wouldn't
+call Mary Ballard beautiful."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't care&mdash;the un-average one would.  And Mary Ballard wouldn't
+look at an ordinary man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No man is ordinary when he is in love."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, with you," Leila's tone was scornful, "love's just a game."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lilah rose, crossed the room with swift steps, and kissed her.  "Don't
+let me ruffle your plumage, Jenny Wren," she said; "I'm a screaming
+peacock this morning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What's the matter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not the perfect success I planned to be.  Oh, I can see it.  I've
+been here for three months, and people stare at me, but they don't call
+on me&mdash;not the ones I want to know.  And it's because I am
+too&mdash;emphasized.  In New York you have to be emphatic to be anything at
+all.  Otherwise you are lost in the crowd.  That's why Fifth Avenue is
+full of people in startling clothes.  In the mob you won't be singled
+out simply for your pretty face&mdash;there are too many pretty faces; so it
+is the woman who strikes some high note of conspicuousness who attracts
+attention.  But you're like a flock of cooing doves, you Washington
+girls.  You're as natural and frank and unaffected as a&mdash;a covey of
+partridges.  I believe I am almost jealous of your Mary Ballard this
+morning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not because of Porter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not because of any man.  But there are things about her which I can't
+acquire.  I've the money and the clothes and the individuality.  But
+there's a simplicity about her, a directness, that comes from years of
+association with things I haven't had.  Before I came here, I thought
+money could buy anything.  But it can't.  Mary Ballard couldn't be
+anything else.  And I&mdash;I can be anything from a siren to a soubrette,
+but I can't be a lady&mdash;not the kind that you are&mdash;and Mary Ballard."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Saying which, the tropic creature in flamingo red sat down beside the
+cooing dove, and continued:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You were right just now, when you said that the un-average man would
+love Mary Ballard.  Porter Bigelow loves her, and he tops all the other
+men I've met.  And he'd never love me.  He will laugh with me and joke
+with me, and if he wasn't in love with Mary, he might flirt with
+me&mdash;but I'm not his kind&mdash;and he knows it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.  "There are other fish in the
+sea, of course, and Porter Bigelow is Mary's.  But I give you my word,
+Leila Dick, that when I catch sight of his blessed red head towering
+above the others&mdash;like a lion-hearted Richard, I can't see anybody
+else."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For the first time since she had known her, Leila was drawn to the
+other by a feeling of sympathetic understanding.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are you in love with him, Lilah?" she asked; timidly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Lilah stood up, stretching her hands above her head.  "Who knows?
+Being in love and loving&mdash;perhaps they are different things, duckie."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With which oracular remark she adjourned to her dressing-room, where,
+in long rows, her lovely gowns were hung.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila, left alone, picked up a magazine on the table beside her glanced
+through it and laid it down; picked a bonbon daintily out of a big box
+and ate it; picked up a photograph&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mousie," said Lilah, coming back, several minutes later, "what makes
+you so still?  Did you find a book?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+No, Leila had not found a book, and the photograph was back where she
+had first discovered it, face downward under the box of chocolates.
+And she was now standing by the window, her veil drawn tightly over her
+close little hat, so that one might not read the trouble in her
+telltale eyes.  The daisy drooped now, as if withered by the blazing
+sun.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Delilah saw nothing of the change.  She wore a saffron-hued coat,
+which matched the roses in the other room, and her leopard skins, with
+a small hat of the same fur.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she surveyed herself finally in the long glass, she flung out the
+somewhat caustic remark:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"When I get down-stairs and look at Mary Ballard, I shall feel like a
+Beardsley poster propped up beside a Helleu etching."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After lunch, Porter took Aunt Isabelle and Barry and the three girls to
+Fort Myer.  The General and Mr. Jeliffe met them at the drill hall, and
+as they entered there came to them the fresh fragrance of the tan bark.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As the others filed into their seats, Barry held Leila back.  "We will
+sit at the end," he said.  "I want to talk to you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Through her veil, her eyes reproached him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," she said; "no."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He looked down at her in surprise.  Never before had Little-Lovely
+Leila refused the offer of his valuable society.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You sit beside&mdash;Delilah," she said, nervously, "She's really your
+guest."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She is Porter's guest," he declared.  "I don't see why you want to
+turn her over to me."  Then as she endeavored to pass him, he caught
+her arm.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What's the matter?" he demanded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nothing," faintly,
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nothing&mdash;&mdash;" scornfully.  "I can read you like a book.  What's
+happened?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she merely shook her head and sat down, and then the bugle sounded,
+and the band began to play, and in came the cavalry&mdash;a gallant company,
+through the sun-lighted door, charging in a thundering line toward the
+reviewing stand&mdash;to stop short in a perfect and sudden salute.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The drill followed, with men riding bareback, men riding four abreast,
+men riding in pyramids, men turning somersaults on their trained and
+intelligent steeds.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+One man slipped, fell from his horse, and lay close in the tan bark,
+while the other horses went over him, without a hoof touching, so that
+he rose unhurt, and took his place again in the line.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila hid her eyes in her muff.  "I don't like it," she said.  "I've
+never liked it.  And what if that man had been killed?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They don't get killed," said Barry easily.  "The hospital is full of
+those who get hurt, but it is good for them; it teaches them to be cool
+and competent when real danger comes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now came the artillery, streaming through that sun-lighted
+entrance, the heavy wagons a featherweight to the strong, galloping
+horses.  Breathless Leila watched their manoeuvres, as they wheeled and
+circled and crisscrossed in spaces which seemed impossibly
+small&mdash;horses plunging, gun-wagons rattling, dust flying&mdash;faster,
+faster&mdash;&mdash;  Again she shut her eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Mary Ballard, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing, turned to Porter.
+"Don't you love it?" she asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I love you&mdash;&mdash;" audaciously.  "Mary, you and I were born in the wrong
+age.  We belong to the days of King Arthur.  Then I could have worn a
+coat of mail and have stormed your castle, and I shouldn't have cared
+if you hurled defiance from the top turret.  I'd have known that, at
+last, you'd be forced to let down the drawbridge; and I would have
+crossed the moat and taken you prisoner, and you'd have been so
+impressed with my strength and prowess that you would&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, I wouldn't," said Mary quickly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Wait till I finish," said Porter, coolly.  "I'd have shut you up in a
+tower, and every night I'd have come and sung beneath your window, and
+at last you'd have dropped a red rose down to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were laughing together now, and Delilah on the other side of
+Porter demanded, "What's the joke?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There isn't any," said Porter; "it is all deadly earnest&mdash;for me, if
+not for Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now a horse was down; there was a quick bugle-note, silence.  Like
+clockwork, everything had stopped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+People were asking, "Is anybody hurt?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry looked down at Leila.  Then he leaned toward her father.  "I'm
+going to take this child outside," he said; "she's as white as a sheet.
+She doesn't like it.  We will meet you all later."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila's color came back in the sunshine and air and she insisted that
+Barry should return to the hall.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want you to miss it," she said, "just because I am so silly.
+I can stay in Porter's car and wait."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want to see it&mdash;it's an old story to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So they walked on toward Arlington, entering at last the gate which
+leads into that wonderful city of the nation's Northern dead, which was
+once the home of Southern hospitality.  In a sheltered corner they sat
+down and Barry smiled at Little-Lovely Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are you all right now, kiddie?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes," but she did not smile.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He bent down and peered through her veil.  "Take it off and let me look
+at your eyes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With trembling hands, she took out a pin or two and let it fall.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You've been crying."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Barry," the words were a cry&mdash;the cry of a little wounded bird.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stopped smiling.  "Blessed one, what is it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I can't tell you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You must."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A low-growing magnolia hid them from the rest of the world; he put
+masterful hands on her shoulders and turned her face toward him&mdash;her
+little unhappy face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Now tell me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shook herself free.  "Don't, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He flushed suddenly and sensitively.  "I know I'm not much of a fellow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She answered with a dignity which seemed to surmount her usual
+childishness, "Barry, if a man wants a woman to believe in him, he's
+got to make himself worthy of it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well," defiantly, "what have I done?"
+</P>
+
+<A NAME="img-112"></A>
+<CENTER>
+<IMG SRC="images/img-112.jpg" ALT="&quot;What have I done?&quot;" BORDER="2" WIDTH="422" HEIGHT="577">
+<H4>
+[Illustration: "What have I done?"]
+</H4>
+</CENTER>
+
+<P>
+"Don't you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No-o."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then I'll tell you.  Yes, I <I>will</I> tell you," with sudden courage.  "I
+was at Delilah's this morning, and I saw your picture, and what you had
+written on it&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stared at her, with a sense of surging relief.  If it was only that
+he had to explain about&mdash;Lilah.  A smile danced in his eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know you like to&mdash;play the game&mdash;but I didn't think you'd go as far
+as that&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How far?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Barry!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't.  I wish you'd tell me what you mean, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I will."  Her eyes were not reproachful now, they were blazing.  She
+had risen, and with her hands tucked into her muff, and her veil
+blowing about her flushed cheeks, she made her accusation.  "You wrote
+on that picture, 'To the One Girl&mdash;Forever.'  Is that the way you think
+of Delilah, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No.  It is the way I think of you.  And how did that picture happen to
+be in Delilah's possession?  I sent it to you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, I took it over to you yesterday, and left it with one of the
+maids&mdash;a new one.  I intended, to go in and give it to you, but when
+she said you had callers, I handed her the package&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And I thought&mdash;oh, Barry, what else could I think?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was so little and lovely in her tender contrition, that he flung
+discretion to the winds.  "You are to think only one thing," he said,
+passionately, "that I love you&mdash;not anybody else, not ever anybody
+else.  I haven't dared put it into words before.  I haven't dared ask
+you to marry me, because I haven't anything to offer you yet.  But I
+thought you&mdash;knew&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her little hand went out to him.  "Oh, Barry," she whispered, "do you
+really feel that way about me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  More than I have said.  More than I can ever say."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He drew her down beside him on the bench.  "Our world won't want us to
+get married, Leila; they will say that I am such a boy.  But you will
+believe in me, dear one?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Always, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you love me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you know it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, I know it," he said, in a moved voice, as he raised her hands and
+kissed them, "I know it&mdash;thank God."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After the drill, Porter took the whole party back to Delilah's for tea.
+And when her guests had gone, and the black-haired beauty went to her
+flamingo room to dress for dinner, she found a note on her pincushion.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+"I have taken Barry's picture, because he meant it for me; it was a
+mistake, your getting it.  He left it with the new maid one day when
+you were at our house, and she handed it to you instead of to me&mdash;she
+mixed up our names, just as the maids used to mix them up at school.
+And I know you won't mind my taking it, because with you it is just a
+game to play at love&mdash;with Barry.  But it is my life, as you said that
+day in the Park.  And to-day Barry told me that it is his life, too.
+And I am very happy.  But this is our secret, and please let it be your
+secret until we let the rest of the world know&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, reading the childish scrawl, smiled and shook her head.  Then
+she went to the telephone and called up Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Duckie," she said, "I'll dance at your wedding.  Only don't love him
+too much&mdash;no man is worth it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then, triumphant from the other end of the line, came the voice of
+Perfect Faith&mdash;"Oh, Barry's worth it.  I've known him all my life,
+Lilah, and I've never had a single doubt."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap09"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER IX
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress,
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+In the weeks which followed the trip to Fort Myer, Mary found an
+astonishing change in her brother.  For the first time in his life he
+seemed to be taking things seriously.  He stayed at home at night and
+studied.  He gave up Jerry Tuckerman and the other radiant musketeers.
+She did not know the reason for the change but it brought her hope and
+happiness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry saw Leila often, but, as yet, no one but Delilah Jeliffe knew of
+the tie between them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I ought to tell Dad," Leila had said, timidly; "he'd be very happy.
+It is what he has always wanted, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I must prove myself a man first," Barry told her, "I've squandered
+some of my opportunities, but now that I have you to work for, I feel
+as strong as a lion."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were alone in the General's library.  "It is because you trust me,
+dear one," Barry went on, "that I am strong."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She slipped her little hand into his.  "Barry&mdash;it seems so queer to
+think that I shall ever be&mdash;your wife."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You had to be.  It was meant from the&mdash;beginning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Was it, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And it will be to the end.  Oh, I shall always love you, dearly,
+dearly&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was idyllic, their little love affair&mdash;their big love affair, if one
+judged by their measure.  It was tender, sweet, and because it was
+their secret, because there was no word of doubt or of distrust from
+those who were older and wiser, they brought to it all the beauty of
+youth and high hope.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus the spring came, and the early summer, and Barry passed his
+examinations triumphantly, and came home one night and told Mary that
+he was going to marry Leila Dick.  As he told her his blue eyes
+beseeched her, and loving him, and hating to hurt him, Mary withheld
+the expression of her fears, and kissed him and cried a little on his
+shoulder, and Barry patted her cheek, and said awkwardly: "I know you
+think I'm not worthy of her, Mary.  But she will make a man of me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Alone, afterward, Mary wondered if she had been wise to acquiesce&mdash;yet
+surely, surely, love was strong enough to lift a man up to a woman's
+ideal&mdash;and Leila was such a&mdash;darling.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She put the question to Roger Poole that night.  In these warmer days
+she and Roger had slipped almost unconsciously into close intimacy.  He
+read to her for an hour after dinner, when she had no other
+engagements, and often they sat in the old garden, she with her
+note-book on the arm of the stone bench&mdash;he at the other end of the
+bench, under a bush of roses of a hundred leaves.  Sometimes Aunt
+Isabelle was with them, with her fancy work, sometimes they were alone;
+but always when the hour was over, he would close his book and ascend
+to his tower, lest he might meet those who came later.  There were many
+nights that he thus escaped Porter Bigelow&mdash;nights when in the
+moonlight he heard the murmur of voices, mingled with the splash of the
+fountain; and there were other nights when gay groups danced upon the
+lawn to the music played by Mary just within the open window.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet he thanked the gods for the part which he was allowed to play in
+her life.  He lived for that one hour out of the twenty-four.  He dared
+not think what a day would be if he were deprived of that precious
+sixty minutes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Now and then, when she had been very sure that no one would come, he
+had stayed with her in the moonlight, and the little bronze boy had
+smiled at him from the fountain, and there had been the fragrance of
+the roses, and Mary Ballard in white on the stone bench beside him,
+giving him her friendly, girlish confidences; she discussed problems of
+genteel poverty, the delightful obstinacies of Susan Jenks, the
+dominance of Aunt Frances.  She gave him, too, her opinions&mdash;those
+startling untried opinions which warred constantly with his prejudices.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now to-night&mdash;his advice.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think love can change a man's nature?  Make a weak man strong,
+I mean?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He laid down his book.  "You ask that as if I could really answer it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think you can.  You always seem to be able to put yourself in the
+other person's place, and it&mdash;helps."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Thank you.  And now in whose place shall put myself?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The girl's," promptly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He considered it.  "I should say that the man should be put to the test
+before marriage."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mean that she ought to wait until she is sure that he is made
+over?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, I feel that way.  But what if the girl believes in him?  Doesn't
+dream that he is weak&mdash;trusts him absolutely, blindly?  Should any one
+try to open her eyes?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Sometimes it is folly to be wise.  Perhaps for her he will always be
+strong."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then what's the answer?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Only this.  That the man himself should make the test.  He should wait
+until he knows that he is worthy of her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She made a little gesture of hopelessness, just the lifting of her
+hands and letting them drop; then she spoke with a rush of feeling.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mr. Poole&mdash;it is Barry and Leila.  Ought I to let them marry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled at her confidence in her ability to rule the destinies of
+those about her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I fancy that you won't have anything to do with it.  He is of age, and
+you are only his sister.  You couldn't forbid the banns, you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But if I could convince him&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of what?" gravely.  "That you think him a boy?  Perhaps that would
+tend to weaken his powers."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then I must fold my hands?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  As things are now&mdash;I should wait."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not explain, and she did not ask, for what she should wait.  It
+was as if they both realized that the test would come, and that it
+would come in time.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it did come.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was while Leila was on a trip to the Maine coast with her father.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+July was waning, and already an August sultriness was in the air.
+Those who were left in town were the workers&mdash;every one who could get
+away was gone.  Mary, with the care of her house on her hands, refused
+Aunt Frances' invitation for a month by the sea, and Aunt Isabelle
+declined to leave her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I like it better here, even with the heat," she told her niece, "than
+running around Bar Harbor with Frances and Grace."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry wrote voluminous letters to Leila, and received in return her
+dear childish scrawls.  But the strain of her absence began to tell on
+him.  He began to feel the pull toward old pleasures and distractions.
+Then one day Jerry Tuckerman arrived on the scene.  The next night, he
+and Barry and the other radiant musketeers motored over to Baltimore by
+moonlight.  Barry did not come home the next day, nor the next, nor the
+next.  Mary grew white and tense, and manufactured excuses which did
+not deceive Aunt Isabelle.  Neither of the tired pale women spoke to
+each other of their vigils.  Neither of them spoke of the anxiety which
+consumed them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then one night, after a message had come from the office, asking for an
+explanation of Barry's absence; after she had called up the Country
+Club; after she had called up Jerry Tuckerman and had received an
+evasive answer; after she had exhausted all other resources, Mary
+climbed the steps to the Tower Rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And there, sitting stiff and straight in a high-backed chair, with her
+throat dry, her pulses throbbing, she laid the case before Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There is no one else&mdash;I can speak to&mdash;about it.  But Barry's been away
+for nearly a week from the office and from home&mdash;and nobody knows where
+he is.  And it isn't the first time.  It began before father died, and
+it nearly broke his heart.  You see, he had a brother&mdash;whose life was
+ruined because of this.  And Constance and I have done everything.
+There will be months when he is all right.  And then there'll be a
+week&mdash;away.  And after it, he is dreadfully depressed, and I'm afraid."
+She was shivering, though the night was hot.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger dared not speak his sympathy.  This was not the moment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So he said, simply, "I'll find him, and when I find him," he went on,
+"it may be best not to bring him back at once.  I've had to deal with
+such cases before.  We will go into the country for a few days, and
+come back when he is completely&mdash;himself."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, can you spare the time?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I haven't taken any vacation, and&mdash;so there are still thirty days to
+my credit.  And I need an outing."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He prepared at once to go, and when he had packed a little bag, he came
+down into the garden.  There was moonlight and the fragrance and the
+splashing fountain.  Roger was thrilled by the thought of his quest.
+It was as if he had laid upon himself some vow which was sending him
+forth for the sake of this sweet lady.  As Mary came toward him, he
+wished that he might ask for the rose she wore, as his reward.  But he
+must not ask.  She gave him her friendship, her confidence, and these
+were very precious things.  He must never ask for more&mdash;and so he must
+not ask for a rose.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now he was standing just below her on the terrace steps, looking up
+at her with his heart in his eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'll find him," he said, "don't worry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She reached out and touched his shoulder with her hand.  "How good you
+are," she said, wistfully, "to take all of this trouble for us.  I feel
+that I ought not to let you do it&mdash;and yet&mdash;we are so helpless, Aunt
+Isabelle and I."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was nothing of the boy about her now.  She was all clinging
+dependent woman.  And the touch of her hand on his shoulder was the
+sword of the queen conferring knighthood.  What cared he now for a rose?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So he left her, standing there in the moonlight, and when he reached
+the bottom of the hill, he turned and looked back, and she still stood
+above him, and as she saw him turn, she waved her hand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In days of old, knights fought with dragons and cut off their heads,
+only to find that other heads had grown to replace those which had been
+destroyed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it was such dragons of doubt and despair which Roger Poole fought
+in the days after he had found Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The boy had hidden himself in a small hotel in the down-town district
+of Baltimore.  Following one clue and then another, Roger had come upon
+him.  There had been no explanations.  Barry had seemed to take his
+rescue as a matter of course, and to be glad of some one into whose
+ears he could pour the litany of his despair.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's no use, Poole.  I've fought and fought.  Father helped me.  And I
+promised Con.  And I thought that my love for Leila would make me
+strong.  But there's no use trying.  I'll be beaten.  It is in the
+blood.  I had an uncle who drank himself to death.  And back of him
+there was a grandfather."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They had been together for two days.  Barry had agreed to Roger's plans
+for a trip to the country, and now they were under the trees on the
+banks of one of the little brackish rivers which flow into the
+Chesapeake.  They had fished a little in the early morning, then had
+brought their boat in, for Barry had grown tired of the sport.  He
+wanted to talk about himself.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's no use," he said again; "it's in the blood."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger was propped against a tree, his hat off, his dark hair blown back
+from his fine thin face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Our lives," he said, "are our own.  Not what our ancestors make them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't believe it," Barry said, flatly.  "I've fought a good fight,
+no one can say that I haven't.  And I've lost.  After this do you
+suppose that Mary will let me marry Leila?  Do you suppose the General
+will let me marry her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Will you let yourself marry her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry's face flamed.  "Then you think I'm not worthy?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is what you think, Ballard, not what I think."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry pulled up a handful of grass and threw it away, pulled up another
+handful and threw it away.  Then he said, doggedly, "I'm going to marry
+her, Poole; no one shall take her away from me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you call that love?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  I can't live without her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger with his eyes on the dark water which slipped by the banks,
+taking its shadows from the darkness of the thick branches which bent
+above it said quietly, "Love to me has always seemed something bigger
+than that&mdash;it has seemed as if love&mdash;great love took into consideration
+first the welfare of the beloved."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a long silence, out of which Barry said tempestuously, "It
+will break her heart if anything comes between us.  I'm not saying that
+because am a conceited donkey.  But she is such a constant little
+thing."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger nodded.  "That's all the more reason why you've got to pull up
+now, Ballard."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I've tried."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I knew a man who tried&mdash;and won."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How?" eagerly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I met him in the pine woods of the South.  I was down there to recover
+from a cataclysm which had changed&mdash;my life.  This man had a little
+shack next to mine.  Neither of us had much money.  We lived literally
+in the open.  We cooked over fires in front of our doors.  We hunted
+and fished.  Now and then we went to town for our supplies, but most of
+our things we got from the schooner-men who drove down from the hills.
+My neighbor was married.  He had a wife and three children.  But he had
+come alone.  And he told me grimly that he should never go back until
+he went back a man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Did he go back?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  He conquered.  He looked upon his weakness not merely as a moral
+disease, but as a physical one.  And it was to be cured like any other
+disease by removing the cause.  The first step was to get away from old
+associations.  He couldn't resist temptation, so he had come where he
+was not tempted.  His occupation in the city had been mental, here it
+was largely physical.  He chopped wood, he tramped the forest, he
+whipped the streams.  And gradually he built up a self which was
+capable of resistance.  When he went back he was a different man, made
+over by his different life.  And he has cast out his&mdash;devil."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The boy was visibly impressed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"His way might not be your way," Roger concluded, "but the fact that he
+fought a winning battle should give you hope."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The next day they went back.  Mary met them as if nothing had happened.
+The basket of fish which they had brought to be cooked by Susan Jenks
+furnished an unembarrassing topic of conversation.  Then Barry went to
+his room, and Mary was alone with Roger.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She had had a letter from him, and a message by telephone; thus her
+anxiety had been stilled.  And she was very grateful&mdash;so grateful that
+her voice trembled as she held out her hands to him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How shall I ever thank you?" she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took her hands in his, and stood looking down at her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not speak at once, yet in those fleeting moments Mary had a
+strange sense of a question asked and answered.  It was as if he were
+calling upon her for something she was not ready to give&mdash;as if he were
+drawing from her some subconscious admission, swaying her by a force
+that was compelling, to reveal herself to him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And, as she thought these things, he saw a new look in her eyes, and
+her breath quickened.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He dropped her hands.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't thank me," he said.  "Ask me again to do something for you.
+That shall be my reward."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap10"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER X
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+In September everybody came back to town, Porter Bigelow among the rest.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He telephoned at once to Mary, "I'm coming up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was radiant.  "Constance and Gordon arrived Monday, and I want you
+for dinner.  Leila will be here and the General and Aunt Frances and
+Grace from New York."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His growl came back to her.  "And that means that I won't have a minute
+alone with you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Porter&mdash;please.  There are so many other girls in the world&mdash;and
+you've had the whole summer to find one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The summer has been a howling wilderness.  But mother has put me
+through my paces at the resorts.  Mary, I've learned such a lot of new
+dances to teach you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Teach them to Grace."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He groaned.  "You know what I think of Grace Clendenning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter, she's beautiful.  She wears little black frocks with wide
+white collars and cuffs and looks perfectly adorable.  To-night she's
+going to wear a black tulle gown and a queer flaring black tulle
+head-dress, and with her red hair&mdash;you won't be able to drag your eyes
+from her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I've enough red hair of my own," Porter informed her, "without having
+to look at Grace's."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'll put you opposite her at dinner.  Come and see, and be conquered."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger Poole was also invited to the home-coming dinner.  Mary had asked
+nobody's advice this time.  Of late Roger and Barry had been much
+together, and it was their friendship which Mary had exploited, when
+Constance, somewhat anxiously, had asked, on the day preceding the
+dinner, if she thought it was wise to include the lonely dweller in the
+Tower Rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He's really very nice, Constance.  And he has been a great help to
+Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was the first time that they had spoken of their brother.  And now
+Constance's words came with something of an effort.  "What of Barry,
+Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He is more of a man, Con.  He is trying hard for Leila's sake."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon thinks they really ought not to be engaged."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The sisters were in Mary's room, and Mary at her little desk was
+writing out the dinner list for Susan Jenks.  She looked up and laid
+down her pen.  "Then you've told Gordon?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  And he says that Barry ought to go away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Where?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Far enough to give Leila a chance to get over it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think she would ever get over it, Con?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon thinks she would."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's head went up.  "I am not asking what Gordon thinks.  What do you
+think?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think as Gordon does."  Then as Mary made a little impatient
+gesture, she added, "Gordon is very wise.  At first it seemed to me
+that he was&mdash;harsh, in his judgment of Barry.  But he knows so much of
+men&mdash;and he says that here, in town, among his old associations&mdash;Barry
+will never be different.  And it isn't fair to Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary knew that it was not fair to Leila.  She had always known it.  Yet
+she was stubbornly resentful of the fact that Gordon Richardson should
+be, as it were, the arbiter of Barry's destiny.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, it is all such a muddle, Con," she said, and put the question
+aside.  "We won't talk about it just now.  There is so much else to
+say&mdash;and it is lovely to have you back, dearest&mdash;and you are so lovely."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Constance was curled up on Mary's couch, resting after her journey.  "I
+am so happy, Mary.  No woman knows anything about it, until she has had
+it for herself.  A man's strength is so wonderful&mdash;and Gordon's care of
+me&mdash;oh, Mary, if there were only another man in the world for you like
+Gordon I should be perfectly content."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a fervent gentle echo of Aunt Frances' demand upon her, and Mary
+suppressing her raging jealousy of the man who had stolen her sister,
+asked somewhat wistfully, "Can you talk about me, for a minute, and
+forget that you have a husband?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't need to forget Gordon," was the serene response.  "I can keep
+him in the back of my mind."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary picked up her pen, and underscored "<I>Soup</I>"; then: "Constance,
+darling," she said, "would you feel dreadfully if I went to work?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What kind of work, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In one of the departments,&mdash;as stenographer."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you don't know anything about it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, I do, I've been studying ever since you went away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But why, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because&mdash;oh, can't you see, Constance?  I can't be sure of&mdash;Barry&mdash;for
+future support.  And I won't go with Aunt Frances.  And this house is
+simply eating up the little that father left us.  When you married, I
+thought the rental of the Tower Rooms would keep things going, but it
+won't.  And I won't sell the house.  I love every old stick and stone
+of it.  And anyhow, must I sit and fold my hands all the rest of my
+life just because I am a woman?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Mary, dear, you will marry&mdash;there's Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Constance, I couldn't think of marriage that way&mdash;as a chance to be
+taken care of.  Oh, Con, I want to wait&mdash;for love."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dearest, of course.  But you can live with us.  Gordon would never
+consent to your working&mdash;he thinks it is dreadful for a woman to have
+to fight the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary shook her head.  "No, it wouldn't be fair to you.  It is never
+fair for an outsider to intrude upon the happiness of a home.  If your
+duet is ever to be a trio, it must not be with my big blundering voice,
+which could make only a discord, but a little piping one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She looked up to meet Constance's shy, self-conscious eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary flew to her, and knelt beside the couch.  "Darling, darling?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the list was forgotten and Susan Jenks coming up for it was
+made a party to that tremulous secret, and the fate of the dinner was
+threatened until Mary, coming back to realities, kissed her sister and
+went to her desk, and held herself sternly to the five following
+courses of the family dinner which was to please the palates of those
+fresh from Paris and London and from castles by the sea; and which was
+to test to the utmost the measure of Susan's culinary skill.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At dinner the next night, Gordon Richardson looked often and intently
+at Roger Poole, and when, under the warmth of the September moon, the
+men drifted out into the garden to smoke, he said, "I've just placed
+you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger nodded.  "I thought you'd remember.  You were one of the younger
+boys at St. Martin's&mdash;you haven't changed much, but I couldn't be sure."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon hesitated.  "I thought I heard from someone that you entered the
+Church."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I had a church in the South&mdash;for three years."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you gave it up?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  I gave it up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+That was all.  Not a word of the explanation for which he knew Gordon
+was waiting.  Nothing but the bare statement, "I gave it up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They talked a little of St. Martin's after that, of their boyish
+experiences.  But Roger was conscious that Gordon was weighing him, and
+asking of himself, "Why did he give it up?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The two men were sitting on the stone bench where Roger had so often
+sat with Mary.  The garden was showing the first signs of the season's
+blight.  Fading leaf and rustling vine had replaced the unspringing
+greenness and the fragrant growth of the summer.  There were, to be
+sure, dahlias and chrysanthemums and cosmos.  But the glory of the
+garden was gone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then into the garden came Mary!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was wrapped in a thin silken, scarlet cloak that belonged to
+Constance.  As she passed through the broad band of light made by the
+street lamp.  Roger had a sudden memory of the flame-like blossoming of
+a certain slender shrub in the spring.  It had been the first of the
+flowers to bloom, and Mary had picked a branch for the vase on his
+table in the Tower sitting-room.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Constance wants you, Gordon," Mary said, as she came nearer; "some one
+has called up to arrange about a dinner date, and she can't decide
+without you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sat down on the stone bench, and Roger, who had risen at her
+approach, stood under the hundred-leaved bush from which all the roses
+were gone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you know," he said, without warning or preface, "that it seemed to
+me that, as you came into the garden, it bloomed again."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Never before had he spoken thus.  And he said it again.  "When you
+came, it was as if the garden bloomed."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He sat down beside her.  "Is any one going to claim you right away?
+Because if not, I have something I want to say."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nobody will claim me.  At least I hope nobody will.  Grace Clendenning
+is telling Porter about the art of woman's dress.  She takes clothes so
+seriously, you know.  And Porter is interested in spite of himself.
+And Barry and Leila are on the terrace steps, looking at the moon over
+the river, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Isabelle and General Dick are in
+the house because of the night air, so there's really no one in the
+garden but you and me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Just you&mdash;and&mdash;me&mdash;&mdash;" he said, and stopped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was plainly puzzled by his manner.  But she waited, her arms
+wrapped in her red cloak.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At last he said, "Your brother-in-law and I went to school together."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  St. Martin's.  He was younger than I, and we were not much
+together.  But I knew him.  And after he had puzzled over it, he knew
+me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How interesting."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And he asked me something about myself, which I have never told you;
+which I want to tell you now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was finding it hard to tell, with her eyes upon him, bright as stars.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Your brother said he had heard that I had gone into the Church&mdash;that I
+had a parish.  And what he had heard was true.  Until five years ago, I
+was rector of a church in the South."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>You</I>?"  That was all.  Just a little breathed note of incredulity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  I wanted to tell you before he should have a chance to tell, and
+to think that I had kept from you something which you should have been
+told.  But I am not sure, even now, that it should be told."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But on Christmas Eve, you said that you did not believe&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I do not."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And was that the reason you gave it up?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No.  It is a long story.  And it is not a pleasant one.  Yet it seems
+that I must tell it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The wind had risen and blew a mist from the fountain.  The dead leaves
+rustled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary shivered.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you are cold," Roger said, "and I am keeping you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," she said, mechanically, "I am not cold.  I have my cloak.  Please
+go on."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But he was not to tell his story then, for a shaft of strong light
+illumined the roadway, and a big limousine stopped at the foot of the
+terrace steps.  They heard Delilah Jeliffe's high laugh; then Porter's
+voice in the garden.  "Mary, are you there?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Grace Clendenning and her mother are going, and Delilah and Mr.
+Jeliffe have motored out to show you their new car."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was deep disapproval in his voice.  Mary rose reluctantly as he
+joined them.  "Oh, Porter, must I listen to Delilah's chatter for the
+rest of the evening?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You made me listen to Grace's.  This is your punishment."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want to be punished.  And I am very tired, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This was a new word in Mary Ballard's vocabulary, and Porter responded
+at once to its appeal.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We will get rid of Delilah presently, and then Gordon and Constance
+will go with us for a spin around the Speedway.  That will set you up,
+little lady."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger stood silent by the fountain.  Through the veil of mist the
+little bronze boy seemed to smile maliciously.  During all the years in
+which he had ridden the dolphin, he had seen men and women come and go
+beneath the hundred-leaved bush.  And he had smiled on all of them, and
+by their mood they had interpreted his smiles.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger's mood at this moment was one of impotent rebellion at Porter's
+air of proprietorship, and it was with this air intensified that, as
+Mary shivered again Porter drew her wrap about her shoulders, fastening
+the loop over the big button with expert fingers and said, carelessly,
+"Are you coming in with us, Poole?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No.  Not now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Above the head of the little bronze boy, level glance met level glance,
+as in the moonlight the men surveyed each other.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Mary spoke.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mr. Poole, I am so sorry not to hear the rest of the&mdash;story."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You shall hear it another time."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She hesitated, looking up at him.  It was as if she wanted to speak but
+could not, with Porter there to listen.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she smiled, with eyes and lips.  Just a flash, but it warmed his
+heart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet as she went away with Porter, and passed once more through the
+broad band of the street lamp's light which made of her scarlet cloak a
+flaming flower, he looked after her wistfully, and wondered if when she
+had heard what he had to tell she would ever smile at him like that
+again.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, fresh from a triumphal summer, was in the midst of a laughing
+group on the porch.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As Mary came up, she was saying: "And we have taken a dear old home in
+Georgetown.  No more glare or glitter.  Everything is to be subdued to
+the dullness of a Japanese print&mdash;pale gray and dull blue and a splash
+of black.  This gown gives the keynote."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was in gray taffeta, with a girdle of soft old blue, and a string
+of black rose-beads.  No color was on her cheeks&mdash;there was just the
+blackness of her hair and the whiteness of her fine skin.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's great," Barry said,
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah nodded.  "Yes.  It has taken me several years to find out some
+things."  She looked at Grace and smiled.  "It didn't take you years,
+did it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace smiled back.  The two women were as far apart as the poles.
+Grace represented the old Knickerbocker stock, Lilah, a later grafting.
+Grace studied clothes because it pleased her to make fashions a fine
+art.  Delilah studied to impress.  But each one saw in the other some
+similarity of taste and of mood, and the smile that they exchanged was
+that of comprehension.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances did not approve of Delilah.  She said so to Grace going
+home.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"My dear, they live on the West Side&mdash;in a big house on the Drive.  My
+calling list stops east of the Park."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace shrugged.  "Mother," she said, "I learned one thing in
+Paris&mdash;that the only people worth knowing are the interesting people,
+and whether they live on the Drive or in Dakota, I don't care.  And
+we've an awful lot of fossils in our set."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mrs. Clendenning shifted the argument.  "I don't see why General Dick
+allows Leila to be so much with Miss Jeliffe."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They were at school together, and the General and Mr. Jeliffe are old
+friends."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her mother shrugged.  "Well, I hope that if we stay here for the winter
+that they won't be forced upon us.  Washington is such a city of
+climbers, Grace."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace let the matter drop there.  She had learned discretion.  She and
+her mother viewed life from different angles.  To attempt to reconcile
+these differences would mean, had always meant, strife and controversy,
+and in these later years, Grace had steered her course toward serenity.
+She had refused to be blown about by the storms of her mother's
+prejudices.  In the midst of the conventionality of her own social
+training, she had managed to be untrammeled.  In this she was more like
+Mary than the others of her generation.  And she loved Mary, and wanted
+to see her happy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mother," she asked abruptly, "who is this Roger Poole?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mrs. Clendenning told her that he was a lodger in the Tower Rooms&mdash;a
+treasury clerk&mdash;a mere nobody.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace challenged the last statement.  "He's a brilliant man," she said.
+"I sat next to him at dinner.  There's a mystery somewhere.  He has an
+air of authority, the ease of a man of the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He is in love with Mary," said Mrs. Clendenning, "and he oughtn't to
+be in the house."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Mary isn't in love with him&mdash;not yet."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How do you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the darkness Grace smiled.  How did she know?  Why, Mary in love
+would be lighted up by a lamp within!  It would burn in her cheeks,
+flash in her eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No, Mary's not in love," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She ought to marry Porter Bigelow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She ought not to marry Porter.  Mary should marry a man who would
+utilize all that she has to give.  Porter would not utilize it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Now what do you mean by that?" said Mrs. Clendenning, impatiently.
+"Don't talk nonsense, Grace."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary Ballard," Grace analyzed slowly, "is one of the women who if she
+had been born in another generation would have gone singing to the
+lions for the sake of an ideal; she would have led an army, or have
+loaded guns behind barricades.  She has courage and force, and the need
+of some big thing in her life to bring out her best.  And Porter
+doesn't need that kind of wife.  He doesn't want it.  He wants to
+worship.  To kneel at her feet and look up to her.  He would require
+nothing of her.  He would smother her with tenderness.  And she doesn't
+want to be smothered.  She wants to lift up her head and face the
+beating winds."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mrs. Clendenning, helpless before this burst of eloquence on the part
+of her usually restrained daughter, asked, tartly, "How in the world do
+you know what Porter wants or Mary needs?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps," said Grace, slowly, "it is because I am a little like Mary.
+But I am older, and I've learned to take what the world gives.  Not
+what I want.  But Mary will never be content with compromise, and she
+will always go through life with her head up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's head was up at that very moment, as with cheeks flaming and eyes
+bright, she played hostess to her guests, while in the back of her
+brain were beating questions about Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Freed from the somewhat hampering presence of Mrs. Clendenning, Delilah
+was letting herself go, and she drew even from grave Gordon Richardson
+the tribute of laughter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It was an artist that I met at Marblehead," she said, "who showed me
+the way.  He told me that I was a blot against the sea and the sky,
+with my purples and greens and reds and yellows.  I will show you his
+sketches of me as I ought to be.  They opened my eyes; and I'll show
+you my artist too.  He's coming down to see whether I have caught the
+idea."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now she moved down the steps.  "Father will be furious if I keep
+him waiting any longer.  He's crazy over the car, and when he drives,
+it is a regular Tam O'Shanter performance.  I won't ask any of you to
+risk your necks with him yet, but if you and the General are willing to
+try it, Leila, we will take you home."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I haven't fought in fifty battles to show the white feather now," said
+the General, and Leila chirruped, "I'd love it," and presently, with
+Barry in devoted attendance, they drove off.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, waiting on the porch for Porter to telephone for his own car,
+which was to take them around the Speedway, looked eagerly toward the
+fountain.  The moon had gone under a cloud, and while she caught the
+gleam of the water, the hundred-leaved bush hid the bench.  Was Roger
+Poole there?  Alone?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She heard Porter's voice behind her.  "Mary," he said, "I've brought a
+heavy wrap.  And the car will be here in a minute."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle had given him the green wrap with the fur.  She slipped
+into it silently, and he turned the collar up about her neck.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not going to have you shivering as you did in that thin red
+thing," he said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She drew away.  It was good of him to take care of her, but she didn't
+want his care.  She didn't want that tone, that air of possession.
+She was not Porter's.  She belonged to herself.  And to no one else.
+She was free.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With the quick proud movement that was characteristic of her, she
+lifted her head.  Her eyes went beyond Porter, beyond the porch, to the
+Tower Rooms where a light flared, suddenly.  Roger Poole was not in the
+garden; he had gone up without saying "Good-night."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap11"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XI
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In the Tower Rooms, Midnight&mdash;&mdash;</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is best to write it.  What I might have said to you in the garden
+would have been halting at best.  How could I speak it all with your
+clear eyes upon me&mdash;all the sordid history of those years which are
+best buried, but whose ghosts to-night have risen again?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If in these months&mdash;this year that I have lived in these rooms, I have
+seemed to hide that which you will now know, it was not because I
+wanted to set myself before you as something more than I am.  Not that
+I wished to deceive.  It was simply that the thought of the old life
+brought a surging sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, of rebellion
+against fate, Having put it behind me, I have not wished to talk about
+it&mdash;to think about it&mdash;to have it, in all its tarnished tragedy, held
+up before your earnest, shining eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For you have never known such things as I have to tell you, Mary
+Ballard.  There has been sorrow in your life, and, I have seen of late,
+suffering for those you love.  But, as yet, you have not doffed an
+ideal.  You have not bowed that brave young head of yours.  You have
+never yet turned your back upon the things which might have been.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As I have turned mine.  I wish sometimes that you might have known me
+before the happening of these things which I am to tell you.  But I
+wish more than all, that I might have known you.  Until I came here, I
+did not dream that there was such a woman in the world as you.  I had
+thought of women first, as a chivalrous boy thinks, later, as a
+disillusioned man.  But of a woman like a young and ardent soldier, on
+fire to fight the winning battles of the world&mdash;of such a woman I had
+never dreamed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But this year has taught me.  I have seen you pushing away from you the
+things which would have charmed most women  I have seen you pushing
+away wealth, and love for the mere sake of loving.  I have seen you
+willing to work that you might hold undimmed the ideal which you had
+set for your womanhood.  Loving and love-worthy, you have not been
+willing to receive unless you could give, give from the fulness of that
+generous nature of yours.  And out of that generosity, you have given
+me your friendship.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now; as I write the things which your clear eyes are to read, I am
+wondering whether that friendship will be withdrawn.  Will you when you
+have heard of my losing battle, find anything in me that is
+worthy&mdash;will there be anything saved out of the wreck of your thought
+of me?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Well, here it is, and you shall judge:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I will skip the first years, except to say that my father was one of
+the New York Pooles who moved South after the Civil War.  My mother was
+from Richmond.  We were prosperous folk, with an unassailable social
+position.  My mother, gracious and charming, is little more than a
+memory; she died when I was a child.  My father married again, and died
+when I was in college.  There were three children by this second
+marriage, and when the estate was settled, only a modest sum fell to my
+share.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I had been a lonely little boy&mdash;at college I was a dreamy, idealistic
+chap, with the saving grace of a love of athletics.  Your
+brother-in-law will tell you something of my successes on our school
+team.  That was my life&mdash;the day in the open, the nights among my books.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As time went on, I took prizes in oratory&mdash;there was a certain
+commencement, when the school went wild about me, and I was carried on
+the shoulders of my comrades.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There seemed open to me the Church and the law.  Had I lived in a
+different environment, there would have been also the stage.  But I saw
+only two outlets for my talents, the Church, toward which my tastes
+inclined, and the law, which had been my father's profession.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At last I chose the Church.  I liked the thought of my scholarly
+future&mdash;of the power which my voice might have to sway audiences and to
+move them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am putting it all down, all of my boyish optimism, conceit&mdash;whatever
+you may choose to call it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet I am convinced of this, and my success of a few years proved it,
+that had nothing interfered with my future, I should have made an
+impression on ever-widening circles.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But something came to interfere.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In my last years at the Seminary, I boarded at a house where I met
+daily the daughter of the landlady.  She was a little thing, with
+yellow hair and a childish manner.  As I look back, I can't say that I
+was ever greatly attracted to her.  But she was a part of my life for
+so long that gradually there grew up between us a sort of good
+fellowship.  Not friendship in the sense that I have understood it with
+you; there was about it nothing of spiritual or of mental congeniality.
+But I played the big brother.  I took her to little dances; and to
+other college affairs.  I gave both to herself and to her widowed
+mother such little pleasures as it is possible for a man to give to two
+rather lonely women.  There were other students in the house, and I was
+not conscious that I was doing anything more than the rest of them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then there came a day when the yellow-haired child&mdash;-shall I call her
+Kathy?&mdash;wanted to go to a pageant in a neighboring town.  It was to
+last two days, and there was to be a night parade, and floats and a
+carnival.  Many of the students were going, and it was planned that
+Kathy and I should take a morning train on the first day, so that we
+might miss nothing.  Kathy's mother would come on an afternoon train,
+and they would spend the night at a certain quiet hotel, while I was to
+go with a lot of fellows to another.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Well, when that afternoon train arrived, the mother was not on it.  Nor
+did she come.  Without one thought of unconventionality, I procured a
+room for Kathy at the place where she and her mother would have
+stopped.  Then I left her and went to the other hotel to join my
+classmates.  But carnival-mad; they did not come in at all, and went
+back on an express which passed through the town in the early morning.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When Kathy and I reached home at noon, we found her mother white and
+hysterical.  She would listen to no explanations.  She told me that I
+should have brought Kathy back the night before&mdash;that she had missed
+her train and thus her appointment with us.  And she told me that I was
+in honor bound to marry Kathy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As I write it, it seems such melodrama.  But it was very serious then.
+I have never dared analyze the mother's motives.  But to my boyish eyes
+her anxiety for her daughter's reputation was sincere, and I accepted
+the responsibility she laid upon me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Well, I married her.  And she put her slender arms about my neck and
+cried and thanked me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was very sweet and she was my&mdash;wife&mdash;and when I was given a parish
+and had introduced her to my people, they loved her for the white
+gentleness which seemed purity, and for acquiescent amiability which
+seemed&mdash;goodness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I have myself much to blame in this&mdash;that I did not love her.  All
+these years I have known it.  But that I was utterly unawakened I did
+not know.  Only in the last few months have I learned it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Perhaps she missed what I should have given her.  God knows.  And He
+only knows whether, if I had adored her, worshiped her, things would
+have been different.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I was very busy.  She was not strong.  She was left much to herself.
+The people did not expect any great efforts on her part&mdash;it was enough
+that she should look like a saint&mdash;that she should lend herself so
+perfectly to the ecclesiastical atmosphere.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now comes the strange, the almost unbelievable part.  One morning
+when we had been married two years, I left the house to go to the
+office of one of my most intimate friends in the parish&mdash;a doctor who
+lived near us, who was unmarried, and who had prescribed now and then
+for my wife.  As I went out, Kathy asked me to return to him a magazine
+which she handed me.  It was wrapped and tied with a string.  I had to
+wait in the doctor's office, and I unwrapped the magazine and untied
+the string, and between the leaves I found a note to&mdash;my friend.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Why do people do things like that?  She might have telephoned what she
+had to say; she might have written it, and have sent it through the
+mails.  But she chose this way, and let me carry to another man the
+message of her love for him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For that was what the note told.  There was no doubt, and I walked out
+of the office and went home.  In other times with other manners, I
+might have killed him.  If I had loved her, I might; I cannot tell.
+But I went home.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She seemed glad that I knew.  And she begged that I would divorce her
+and let her marry him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Dear Clear Eyes, who read this, what do you think of me?  Of this story?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And what did I think?  I who had dreamed, and studied and preached, and
+had never&mdash;lived?  I who had hated the sordid?  I who had thought
+myself so high?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As I married her, so I gave her a divorce.  And as I would not have her
+name and mine smirched, I separated myself from her, and she won her
+plea on the ground of desertion.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Do you know what that meant in my life?  It meant that I must give up
+my church.  It meant that I must be willing to bear the things which
+might be said of me.  Even if the truth had been known, there would
+have been little difference, except in the sympathy which would have
+been vouchsafed me as the injured party.  And I wanted no man's pity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And so I went forth, deprived of the right to lift up my voice and
+preach&mdash;deprived of the right to speak to the thousands who had packed
+my church.  And now&mdash;what meaning for me had the candles on the altar,
+what meaning the voices in the choir?  I had sung too, in the light of
+the holy candles, but it was ordained that my voice must be forever
+still.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I fought my battle out one night in the darkness of my church.  I
+prayed for light and I saw none.  Oh, Clear Eyes, why is light given to
+a man whose way is hid?  I went forth from that church convinced that
+it was all a sham.  That the lights meant nothing; that the music meant
+less, and that what I had preached had been a poetic fallacy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Some of the people of my church still believe in me.  Others, if you
+should meet them, would say that she was a saint, and that I was the
+sinner.  Well, if my sin was weakness, I confess it.  I should,
+perhaps, never have married her; but having married her, could I have
+held her mine against her will?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She married him.  And a year after, she died.  She was a frail little
+thing, and I have nothing harsh to say of her.  In a sense she was a
+victim, first of her mother's ambition, next of my lack of love, and
+last of all, of his pursuit.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Perhaps I should not have told you this.  Except my Bishop, who asked
+for the truth, and to whom I gave it, and whose gentleness and kindness
+are never-to-be-forgotten things&mdash;except for him, you are the only one
+I have ever told; the only one I shall ever tell.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I shall tell you this, and glory in the telling.  That if I had a
+life to offer of honor and of achievement, I should offer it now to
+you.  That if I had met you as a dreaming boy, I would have tried to
+match my dreams to yours.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+You may say that with the death of my wife things have changed.  That I
+might yet find a place to preach, to teach&mdash;to speak to audiences and
+to sway them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But any reëntrance into the world means the bringing up of the old
+story&mdash;the question&mdash;the whispered comment.  I do not think that I am a
+coward.  For the sake of a cause, I could face death with courage.  But
+I cannot face questioning eyes and whispering lips.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So I am dedicated for all my future to mediocrity.  And what has
+mediocrity to do with you, who have "never turned your back, but
+marched face forward"?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And so I am going away.  Not so quickly that there will be comment.
+But quickly enough to relieve you of future embarrassment in my behalf.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I do not know that you will answer this.  But I know that whatever your
+verdict, whether I am still to have the grace of your friendship or to
+lose it forever, I am glad to have lived this one year in the Tower
+Rooms.  I am glad to have known the one woman who has given me back&mdash;my
+boyish dreams of all women.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now a last line.  If ever in all the years to come you should have
+need of me, I am at your service.  I shall count nothing too hard that
+you may ask.  I am whimsically aware that in the midst of all this
+darkness and tragedy my offer is that of the Mouse to the Lion.  But
+there came a day when the Mouse paid its debt.  Ask me to pay mine, and
+I will come&mdash;from the ends of the earth.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+This was the letter which Mary found the next morning on her desk in
+the little office room into which Roger had been shown on the night of
+the wedding.  She recognized his firm script and found herself
+trembling as she touched the square white envelope.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she laid the letter aside until she had given Susan her orders,
+until she had given other orders over the telephone, until she had
+interviewed the furnace man and the butcher's boy, and had written and
+mailed certain checks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then she took the letter with her to her own room, locked the door and
+read it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Constance, knocking a little later, was let in, and found her sister
+dressed and ready for the street.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I've a dozen engagements," Mary said.  She was drawing on her gloves
+and smiling.  She was, perhaps, a little pale, but that the Mary of
+to-day was different from the Mary if yesterday was not visible from
+outward signs.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely
+frock you bought me fitted for Delilah's tea dance; then I'll meet you
+at Mrs. Carey's luncheon.  And after that will be our drive with
+Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later
+the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow's.  I'm afraid it will be pretty strenuous
+for you, Constance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I sha'n't try to take in the teas.  I'll come home and lie down before
+I have to dress for dinner."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that
+she was doing it well.  She made conscientious plans with her
+dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the
+luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter's exuberant mood with her
+own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After the view, Constance went home in Porter's car, and Mary was left
+at a house on Dupont Circle.  Porter's eyes had begged that she would
+let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had
+sent him off.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and
+smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who
+insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice.  And then, as
+soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open
+air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a
+break for freedom.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She did not go to the other tea.  All day she had lived in a dream,
+doing that which was required of her and doing it well.  But from now
+until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would
+give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly
+came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.
+At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat
+back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from
+interruption.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter
+stood out.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning
+the voices in the choir?  I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,
+but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This to Mary was the great tragedy&mdash;his loss of courage, his loss of
+faith&mdash;his acceptance of a passive future.  Resolutely she had
+conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had
+read of that sordid marriage and its sequence.  Resolutely she had
+risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole
+of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had
+fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;
+life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not
+thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for
+him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it.  There
+had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she
+had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love
+come to me&mdash;at last?"  But she had not answered it.  She knew that she
+would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which
+was, as yet, hidden from him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But how could she best help him to find that meaning?  Dimly she felt
+that it was to be through her that he would find it.  And he was going
+away.  And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of
+hope.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands.  She had the simple
+faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had
+asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that
+her prayers would be answered.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was late when she left the church.  And she was late in getting
+home.  All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no
+light in the Tower Rooms.  Roger, who dined down-town, would not come
+until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she passed through the garden, she saw that on a bush near the
+fountain bloomed a late rose.  She stooped and picked it, and flitting
+in the dusk down the path, she entered the door which led to the Tower
+stairway.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And when, an hour later, Roger Poole came into the quiet house, weary
+and worn from the strain of a day in which he had tried to read his
+letter with Mary's eyes, he found his room dark, except for the flicker
+of the fire.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Feeling his way through the dimness, he pulled at last the little chain
+of the electric lamp on his table.  The light at once drew a circle of
+gold on the dark dull oak.  And within that circle he saw the answer to
+his letter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Wide open and illumined, lay John Ballard's old Bible.  And across the
+pages, fresh and fragrant as the friendship which she had given him,
+was the late rose which Mary had picked in the garden.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap12"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+To Mary, possessed and swayed by the letter which she had received from
+Roger, it seemed a strange thing that the rest of the world moved
+calmly and unconsciously forward.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The letter had come to her on Saturday.  On Sunday morning everybody
+went to church.  Everybody dined afterward, unfashionably, at two
+o'clock, and later everybody motored out to the Park.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+That is, everybody but Mary!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She declined on the ground of other things to do.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There'll be five of you anyhow with Aunt Frances and Grace," she said,
+"and I'll have tea for you when you come back."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So Constance and Gordon and Aunt Isabelle had gone off, and with Barry
+at Leila's, Mary was at last alone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Alone in the house with Roger Poole!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her little plans were all made, and she went to work at once to execute
+them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a dull afternoon, and the old-fashioned drawing-room, with its
+dying fire, and pale carpet, its worn stuffed furniture and pallid
+mirrors looked dreary.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary had Susan Jenks replenish the fire.  Then she drew up to it one of
+the deep stuffed chairs and a lighter one of mahogany, which matched
+the low tea-table which was at the left of the fireplace.  She set a
+tapestry screen so that it cut off this corner from the rest of the
+room and from the door.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon had brought, the night before, a great box of flowers, and there
+were valley lilies among them.  Mary put the lilies on the table in a
+jar of gray-green pottery.  Then she went up-stairs and changed the
+street costume which she had worn to church for her old green velvet
+gown.  When she came down, the fire was snapping, and the fragrance of
+the lilies made sweet the screened space&mdash;Susan had placed on the
+little table a red lacquered tray, and an old silver kettle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan had also delivered the note which Mary had given her to the Tower
+Rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Until Roger came down Mary readjusted and rearranged everything.  She
+felt like a little girl who plays at keeping house.  Some new sense
+seemed waked within her, a sense which made her alive to the coziness
+and comfort and seclusion of this cut-off corner.  She found herself
+trying to see it all through Roger Poole's eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When he came at last around the corner of the screen, she smiled and
+gave him her hand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This is to be our hour together.  I had to plan for it.  Did you ever
+feel that the world was so full of people that there was no corner in
+which to be&mdash;alone?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he sat down in the big chair, and the light shone on his face, she
+saw how tired he looked, as if the days and the nights since she had
+seen him, had been days and nights of vigil.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She felt a surging sense of sympathy, which set her trembling as she
+had trembled when she had touched his letter as it had laid on her
+desk, but when she spoke her voice was steady.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am going to make you a cup of tea&mdash;then we can talk."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He watched her as she made it, her deft hands unadorned, except by the
+one quaint ring, the whiteness of her skin set on by her green gown,
+the whiteness of her soul symbolized by the lilies.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He leaned forward and spoke suddenly.  "Mary Ballard," he said, "if I
+ever reach paradise, I shall pray that it may be like this, with the
+golden light and the fragrance, and you in the midst of it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Earnestly over the lilies, she looked at him.  "Then you believe in
+Paradise?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I should like to think that in some blessed future state I should come
+upon you in a garden of lilies."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps you will."  She was smiling, but her hand shook.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She felt shy, almost tongue-tied.  She made him his tea, and gave him a
+cup; then she spoke of commonplaces, and the little kettle boiled and
+bubbled and sang as if there were no sorrow or sadness in the whole
+wide world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She came at last timidly to the thing she had to say.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't quite know how to begin about your letter.  You see when I
+read it, it wasn't easy for me at first to think straight.  I hadn't
+thought of you as having any such background to your life.  Somehow the
+outlines I had filled in were&mdash;different.  I am not quite sure what I
+had thought&mdash;only it had been nothing like&mdash;this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know.  You could not have been expected to imagine such a past."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, it is not your past which weighs so heavily&mdash;on my heart; it is
+your future."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her eyes were full of tears.  She had not meant to say it just that
+way.  But it had come&mdash;her voice breaking on the last words.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not speak at once, and then he said: "I have no right to trouble
+you with my future."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I want to be troubled."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall not let you.  I shall not ask that of your friendship.  Last
+night when I came back to my rooms I found a rose blooming upon the
+pages of a book.  It seemed to tell me that I had not lost your
+friendship; and you have given me this hour.  This is all I have a
+right to ask of your generosity."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She moved the jar of lilies aside, so that there might be nothing
+between them.  "If I am your friend, I must help you," she said, "or
+what would my friendship be worth?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There is no help," he said, hurriedly, "not in the sense that I think
+you mean it.  My past has made my future.  I cannot throw myself into
+the fight again.  I know that I have been called all sorts of a coward
+for not facing life.  But I could face armies, if it were anything
+tangible.  I could do battle with a sword or a gun or my fists, if
+there were a visible adversary.  But whispers&mdash;you can't kill them; and
+at last they&mdash;kill you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want you to fight," she said, and now behind the whiteness of
+her skin there was a radiance.  "I don't want you to fight.  I want you
+to deliver your message."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What message?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The message that every man who stands in the pulpit must have for the
+world, else he has no right to stand there."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You think then that I had no message?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think," and now her hand went out to him across the table, as if she
+would soften the words, "I think that if you had felt yourself called
+to do that one thing, that nothing would have swayed you from it&mdash;there
+are people not in the churches, who never go to church, who want what
+you have to give&mdash;there are the highways and hedges.  Oh, surely, not
+all of the people worth preaching to are the ones in the pews."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She flung the challenge at him directly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And he flung it back to her, "If I had had such a woman as you in my
+life&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, don't, <I>don't</I>."  The radiance died.  "What has any woman to do
+with it?  It is you&mdash;yourself, who must stand the test."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After the ringing words there was dead silence.  Roger sat leaning
+forward, his eyes not upon her, but upon the fire.  In his white face
+there was no hint of weakness; there was, rather, pride, obstinacy, the
+ruggedness of inflexible purpose.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have not stood the test."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her clear eyes met his squarely.  "Then meet it now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a moment he blazed.  "I know now what you think of me, that I am a
+man who has shirked."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You know I do not think that."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He surrendered.  "I do know it.  And I need your help."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Shaken by their emotion, they became conscious that this was indeed
+their hour.  She told him all that she had dreamed he might do.  Her
+color came and went as she drew the picture of his future.  Some of the
+advice she gave was girlish, impracticable, but through it all ran the
+thread of her faith to him.  She felt that she had the solution.  That
+through service he was to find&mdash;God.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a wonderful hour for Roger Poole.  An hour which was to shine
+like a star in his memory.  Mary's mind had a largeness of vision, the
+ability to rise above the lesser things in order to reach the greater,
+which seemed super-feminine.  It was not until afterward when he
+reviewed what they had said, that he was conscious that she had placed
+the emphasis on what he was to do.  Not once had she spoken of what had
+been done&mdash;not once had she spoken of his wife.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mustn't bury yourself.  You must find a way to reach first one
+group and then another.  And after a time you'll begin to feel that you
+can face the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He winced.  As she put it into words, he began to see himself as others
+must have seen him.  And the review was not a pleasant one.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In a sense that hour with Mary Ballard in the screened space by the
+fire was the hour of Roger Poole's spiritual awakening.  He realized
+for the first time that he had missed the meaning of the candles on the
+altar, the voices in the choir; he had missed the knowledge that one
+must spend and be spent in the service of humanity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I must think it over," he said.  "You mustn't expect too much of me
+all at once."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall expect&mdash;everything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she spoke and smiled, and it seemed to him that his old garment of
+fear slipped from him&mdash;as if he were clothed in the shining armor of
+her confidence in him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They had little time to talk after that, for it was not long before
+they heard without the bray of a motor horn.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger rose at once.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I must go before they come," he said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she laid her hand upon his arm.  "No," she said, "you are not to
+go.  You are never going to run away from the world again.  Set aside
+the screen, please&mdash;and stay."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter, picked up on the way, came in with the others, to behold that
+glowing corner, and those two together.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With his red crest flaming, he advanced upon them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Somebody said 'tea.'  May I have some, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"When the kettle boils."  She had risen, and was holding out her hand
+to him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As the two men shook hands, Porter was conscious of some subtle change
+in Roger.  What had come over the man&mdash;had he dared to make love to
+Mary?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And Mary?  He looked at her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was serenely filling her tea ball.  She had lighted the lamp
+beneath her kettle, and the blue flame seemed to cast her still further
+back among the shadows of her corner.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances had come back with the rest for tea.
+Grace's head, with Porter's, gave the high lights of the scene.  Barry
+had nicknamed them the "red-headed woodpeckers," and the name seemed
+justified.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+While Porter devoted himself to Grace, however, he was acutely
+conscious of every movement of Mary's.  Why had she given up her
+afternoon to Roger Poole?  He had asked if he might come, and she had
+said, "after four," and now it was after four, and the hour which she
+would not give him had been granted to this lodger in the Tower Rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It has been said before that Porter was not a snob, but to him Mary's
+attitude of friendliness toward this man, who was not one of them, was
+a matter of increasing irritation.  What was there about this tall thin
+chap with the tired eyes to attract a woman?  Porter was not conceited,
+but he knew that he possessed a certain value.  Of what value in the
+eyes of the world was Roger Poole&mdash;a government clerk, without
+ambition, handsome in his dark way, but pale and surrounded by an air
+of gloom?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But to-night it was as if the gloom had lifted.  To-night Roger shone
+as he had shone on the night of the Thanksgiving party&mdash;he seemed
+suddenly young and splendid&mdash;the peer of them all.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It came about naturally that, as they drank their tea, some one asked
+him to recite.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Please "&mdash;it was Mary who begged.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter jealously intercepted the look which flashed between them, but
+could make nothing of it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The Whittington one is too long," Roger stated, "and I haven't
+Pittiwitz for inspiration&mdash;but here's another."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leaning forward with his eyes on the fire, he gave it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a man's poem.  It was in the English of the hearty times of Ben
+Jonson and of Kit Marlowe&mdash;and every swinging line rang true.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"What will you say when the world is dying?<BR>
+What when the last wild midnight falls,<BR>
+Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying<BR>
+Round the ruins of old St. Paul's?<BR>
+What will be last of the lights to perish?<BR>
+What but the little red ring we knew,<BR>
+Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish<BR>
+A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!"<BR>
+<BR>
+CHORUS:<BR>
+"Up now, answer me, tell me true.<BR>
+What will be last of the stars to perish?<BR>
+--The fire that lighteth a friend or two."
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+As the last brave verse was ended, Gordon Richardson said, "By Jove,
+how it comes back to me&mdash;you used to recite Poe's 'Bells' at school."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger laughed.  "Yes.  I fancy I made them boom toward the end."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You used to make me shiver and shake in my shoes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances' voice broke in crisply, "What do you mean, Gordon; were
+you at school with Mr. Poole?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  St. Martin's, Aunt Frances."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The name had a magic effect upon Mrs. Clendenning; the boys of St.
+Martin's were of the elect.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Poole?" she said.  "Are you one of the New York Pooles?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger nodded.  "Yes.  With a Southern grafting&mdash;my mother was a Carew."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was glad now to tell it.  Let them follow what clues they would.  He
+was ready for them.  Henceforth nothing was to be hidden.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am going down next week," he continued, "to stay for a time with a
+cousin of my mother's&mdash;Miss Patty Carew.  She lives still in the old
+manor house which was my grandfather's&mdash;she hadn't much but poverty and
+the old house for an inheritance, but it is still a charming place."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances was intent, however, on the New York branch of his family
+tree.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Was your grandfather Angus Poole?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace was wickedly conscious of her mother's state of mind.  No one
+could afford to ignore any descendant of Angus Poole.  To be sure, a
+second generation had squandered the fortune he had left, but his name
+was still one to conjure with.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I never dreamed&mdash;&mdash;" said Aunt Frances.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Naturally," said Roger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.  "I am
+afraid I'm not a credit to my hard-headed financier of a grandfather."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed to Mary that for the first time she was seeing him as he
+might have been before his trouble came upon him.  And she was swept
+forward to the thought of what he might yet be.  She grew warm and rosy
+in her delight that he should thus show himself to her people.  She
+looked up to find Porter's accusing eyes fixed on her; and in the grip
+of a sudden shyness, she gave herself again to her tea-making.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Surely some of you will have another cup?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It developed that Aunt Frances would, and that the water was cold, and
+that the little lamp was empty of alcohol.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary filled it, and, her hand shaking from her inward excitement, let
+the alcohol overflow on the tray and on the kettle frame.  She asked
+for a match and Gordon gave her one.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then, nobody knew how it happened!  The flames seemed to sweep up in a
+blue sheet toward the lace frills in the front of Mary's gown.  It
+leaped toward her face.  Constance screamed.  Then Roger reached her,
+and she was in his arms, her face crushed against the thickness of his
+coat, his hands snatching at her frills.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was over in a moment.  The flames were out.  Very gently, he loosed
+his arms.  She lay against his shoulder white and still.  Her face was
+untouched, but across her throat, which the low collar had left
+exposed, was a hot red mark.  And a little lock of hair was singed at
+one side, her frills were in ruins.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He put her into a chair, and they gathered around her&mdash;a solicitous
+group.  Porter knelt beside her.  "Mary, Mary," he kept saying, and she
+smiled weakly, as his voice broke on "Contrary Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon had saved the table from destruction.  But the flame had caught
+the lilies, crisping them, and leaving them black.  Constance was
+shaken by the shock, and Aunt Frances kept asking wildly, "How did it
+happen?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I spilled the alcohol when I filled it," Mary said.  "It was a silly
+thing to do&mdash;if I had had on one of my thinner gowns&mdash;&mdash;"  She
+shuddered and stopped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall send you an electric outfit to-morrow," Porter announced.
+"Don't fool with that thing again, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger stood behind her chair, with his arms folded on the top and said
+nothing.  There was really nothing for him to say, but there were many
+things to think.  He had saved that dear face from flame or flaw, the
+dear eyes had been hidden against his shoulder&mdash;his fingers smarted
+where he had clutched at her burning frills.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter Bigelow might take possession of her now, he might give her
+electric outfits, he might call her by her first name, but it had not
+been Porter who had saved her from the flames; it had not been Porter
+who had held her in his arms.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap13"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XIII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens, and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It had been decided that, for a time at least, Gordon and Constance
+should stay with Mary.  In the spring they would again go back to
+London.  Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances were already installed for
+the winter at their hotel.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The young couple would occupy the Sanctum and the adjoining room, and
+Mary was to take on an extra maid to help Susan Jenks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In all her planning, Mary had a sense of the pervasiveness of Gordon
+Richardson.  With masculine confidence in his ability, he took upon
+himself not only his wife's problems, but Mary's.  Mary was forced to
+admit, even while she rebelled, that his judgments were usually wise.
+Yet, she asked herself, what right had an outsider to dictate in
+matters which pertained to herself and Barry?  And what right had he to
+offer her board for Constance?  Constance, who was her very own?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But when she had indignantly voiced her objection to Gordon, he had
+laughed.  "You are like all women, Mary," he had said, "and of course I
+appreciate your point of view and your hospitality.  But if you think
+that I am going to let my wife stay here and add to your troubles and
+expense without giving adequate compensation, you are vastly mistaken.
+If you won't let us pay, we won't stay, and that's all there is to it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Here was masculine firmness against which Mary might rage impotently.
+After all, Constance was Gordon's wife, and he could carry her off.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course," she said, yielding stiffly, "you must do as you think
+best."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall," he said, easily, "and I will write you a check now, and you
+can have it to settle any immediate demands upon your exchequer.  I
+shall be away a good deal, and I want Constance to be with you and Aunt
+Isabelle.  It is a favor to me, Mary, to have her here.  You mustn't
+add to my obligations by making me feel too heavily in your debt."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled as he said it, and Gordon had a nice smile.  And presently
+Mary found herself smiling back.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon," she said, in a half apology, "Porter calls me Contrary Mary.
+Maybe I am&mdash;but you see, Constance was my sister before she was your
+wife."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He leaned back in his chair and looked at her.  "And you've had twenty
+years more of her than I&mdash;but please God, Mary, I am going to have
+twenty beautiful years ahead of me to share with her&mdash;I hope it may be
+three times twenty."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His voice shook, and in that moment Mary felt nearer to him than ever
+before.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Gordon," she said, "I'm a horrid little thing.  I've been jealous
+because you took Constance away from me.  But now I'm glad you&mdash;took
+her, and I hope I'll live to dance at your&mdash;golden wedding."  And then,
+most unexpectedly, she found herself sobbing, and Gordon was patting
+her on the back in a big-brotherly way, and saying that he didn't blame
+her a bit, and that if anybody wanted to take Constance away from him,
+they'd have to do it over his dead body.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then he wrote the check, and Mary took it, and in the knowledge of his
+munificence, felt the relief from certain financial burdens.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Before he left her, Gordon, hesitating, referred gravely to another
+subject.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And it will be better for you to have Constance here if Barry goes
+away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry?" breathlessly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Don't you think he ought to go, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," she said, stubbornly; "where could he go?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Anywhere away from Leila.  He mustn't marry that child.  Not yet&mdash;not
+until he has proved himself a man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The blow hit her heavily.  Yet her sense of justice told her that he
+was right.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I can't talk about it," she said, unsteadily; "Barry is all I have
+left."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He rose.  "Poor little girl.  We must see how we can work it out.  But
+we've got to work it out.  It mustn't drift."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Left alone, Mary sat down at her desk and faced the future.  With Roger
+gone, and Barry going&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And the Tower Rooms empty!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shivered.  Before her stretched the darkness and storms of a long
+winter.  Even Constance's coming would not make up for it.  And yet a
+year ago Constance had seemed everything.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She crossed the hall to the dining-room and looked out of the window.
+The garden was dead.  The fountain had ceased to play.  But the little
+bronze boy still flung his gay defiance to wind and weather.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Pittiwitz, following her, murmured a mewing complaint.  Mary picked her
+up; since Roger's going the gray cat had kept away from the emptiness
+of the upper rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With the little purring creature hugged close, Mary reviewed her
+worries&mdash;the world was at sixes and sevens.  Even Porter was proving
+difficult.  Since the Sunday when Roger had saved her from the fire,
+Porter had adopted an air of possession.  He claimed her at all times
+and seasons; she had a sense of being caught in a web woven of kindness
+and thoughtfulness and tender care, but none the less a web which held
+her fast and against her will.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Whimsically it came to her that the four men in her life were opposed
+in groups of two: Gordon and Porter stood arrayed on the side of
+logical preferences; Barry and Roger on the side of illogical
+sympathies.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon had conveyed to her, in rather subtle fashion, his disapproval
+of Roger.  It was only in an occasional phrase, such as "Poor Poole,"
+or "if all of his story were known."  But Mary had grasped that, from
+the standpoint of her brother-in-law, a man who had failed to fulfil
+the promise of his youth might be dismissed as a social derelict.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As for Barry&mdash;the situation with regard to him had become acute.  His
+first disappearance after the coming of Constance had resulted in
+Gordon's assuming the responsibility of the search for him.  He had
+found Barry in a little town on the upper Potomac, ostensibly on a
+fishing trip, and again there was a need for fighting dragons.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Gordon did not fight with the same weapons as Roger Poole.  His
+arguments had been shrewd, keen, but unsympathetic.  And the result had
+been a strained relation between him and Barry.  The boy had felt
+himself misunderstood.  Gordon had sat in judgment.  Constance had
+tearfully agreed with Gordon, and Mary, torn between her sense of
+Gordon's rightness, and her own championship of Barry, had been strung
+to the point of breaking.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She turned from the window, and went up-stairs slowly.  In the Sanctum,
+Constance and Aunt Isabelle were sewing.  At last Aunt Isabelle had
+come into her own.  She spent her days in putting fine stitches into
+infinitesimal garments.  There was about her constantly the perfume of
+the sachet powder with which she was scenting the fine lawn and lace
+which glorified certain baskets and bassinets.  When she was not sewing
+she was knitting&mdash;little silken socks for a Cupid's foot, little warm
+caps, doll's size; puffy wool blankets on big wooden needles.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The Sanctum had taken on the aspect of a bower.  Here Constance sat
+enthroned&mdash;and in her gentleness reminded Mary more and more of her
+mother.  Here was always the sweetness of the flowers with which Gordon
+kept his wife supplied; here, too, was an atmosphere of serene waiting
+for a supreme event.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, entering with Pittiwitz in her arms, tried to cast away her
+worries on the threshold.  She must not be out of tune with this
+symphony.  She smiled and sat down beside Constance.  "Such lovely
+little things," she said; "what can I do?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed that there was a debate on, relative to the suitability of
+embroidery as against fine tucks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary settled it.  "Let me have it," she said; "I'll put in a few tucks
+and a little embroidery&mdash;I shall be glad to have my fingers busy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're always so occupied with other things," Constance complained,
+gently.  "I don't see half enough of you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You have Gordon," Mary remarked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You say that as if it really made a difference."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It does," Mary murmured.  Then, lest she trouble Constance's gentle
+soul, she added bravely, "But Gordon's a dear.  And you're a lucky
+girl."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know I am."  Constance was complacent.  "And I knew you'd recognize
+it, when you'd seen more of Gordon."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary felt a rising sense of rebellion.  She was not in a mood to hear a
+catalogue of Gordon's virtues.  But she smiled, bravely.  "I'll admit
+that he is perfect," she said; "we won't quarrel over it, Con, dear."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But to herself she was saying, "Oh, I should hate to marry a perfect
+man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+All the morning she sat there, her needle busy, and gradually she was
+soothed by the peace of the pleasant room.  The world seemed brighter,
+her problems receded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Just before luncheon was announced came Aunt Frances and Grace.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They brought gifts, wonderful little things, made by the nuns of
+France&mdash;sheer, exquisite, tied with pale ribbons.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We are going from here to Leila's," Aunt Frances informed them; "we
+ordered some lovely trousseau clothes and they came with these."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Trousseau clothes?  Leila's?  Mary's needle pricked the air for a
+moment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They haven't set the day, you know, Aunt Frances; it will be a long
+engagement."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't believe in long engagements," Aunt Frances' tone was final;
+"they are not wise.  Barry ought to settle down."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Nobody answered.  There was nothing to say, but Mary was oppressed by
+the grim humor of it all.  Here was Aunt Frances bearing garments for
+the bride, while Gordon was planning to steal the bridegroom.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She stood up.  "You better stay to lunch," she said; "it is Susan
+Jenks' hot roll day, and you know her rolls."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances peeled off her long gloves.  "I hoped you'd ask us, we are
+so tired of hotel fare."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace laughed.  "Mother is of old New York," she said, "and better for
+her are hot rolls and chops from her own kitchen range, than caviar and
+truffles from the hands of a hotel chef&mdash;in spite of all of our globe
+trotting, she hasn't caught the habit of meals with the mob."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace went down with Mary, and the two girls found Susan Jenks with the
+rolls all puffy and perfect in their pans.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's plenty of them," she said to Mary, "an' if the croquettes give
+out, you can fill up on rolls."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Susan," Grace said, "when Mary gets married will you come and keep
+house for me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan smiled.  "Miss Mary ain't goin' to git married."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She ain't that kind.  She's the kind that looks at a man and studies
+about him, and then she waves him away and holds up her head, and says,
+'I'm sorry, but you won't do.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The two girls laughed.  "How did you get that idea of me, Susan?" Mary
+asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"By studyin' you," said Susan.  "I ain't known you all your life for
+nothin'.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Now Miss Constance," she went on, as she opened the oven and peeped
+in, "Miss Constance is just the other way.  'Most any nice man was
+bound to git her.  An' it was lucky that Mr. Gordon was the first."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And what about me?" was Grace's demand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Go 'way," said Susan, "you knows yo'se'f, Miss Grace.  You bats your
+eyes at everybody, and gives your heart to nobody."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And so Mary and I are to be old maids&mdash;oh, Susan."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They don't call them old maids any more," Susan said, "and they ain't
+old maids, not in the way they once was.  An old maid is a woman who
+ain't got any intrus' in life but the man she can't have, and you all
+is the kin' that ain't got no intrus' in the men that want you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They left her, laughing, and when they reached the dining-room they sat
+down on the window-seat; where Mary had gazed out upon the dead garden
+and the bronze boy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now," said Grace, "tell me about Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There isn't much to tell.  He's given up his position in the Treasury,
+and he's gone down to his cousin's home for a while.  He's going to try
+to write for the magazines; he thinks that stories of that section will
+take."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He's in love with you, Mary.  But you're not in love with him&mdash;and you
+mustn't be."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course not.  I'm not going to marry, Grace."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace gave her a little squeeze.  "You don't know what you are going to
+do, darling; no woman does.  But I don't want you to fall in love with
+anybody yet.  Flit through life with me for a time.  I'll take you to
+Paris next summer, and show you my world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I couldn't, unless I could pay my own way."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Mary, what makes you fight against anybody doing anything for you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter says it is my contrariness&mdash;-but I just can't hold out my hands
+and let things drop into them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know&mdash;and that's why you won't marry Porter Bigelow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary flashed at her a surprised and grateful glance.  "Grace," she
+said, solemnly, "you're the first person who has seemed to understand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And I understand," said Grace, "because to me life is a Great
+Adventure.  Everything that happens is a hazard on the highway&mdash;as yet
+I haven't found a man who will travel the road with me; they all want
+to open a gate and shut me in and say, 'Stay here.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's eyes were shining.  "I feel that, too."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace kissed her.  "You'd laugh, Mary, if I told the dream which is at
+the end of my journey."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I sha'n't laugh&mdash;tell me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a rich color in Grace's cheeks.  In her modish frock of the
+black which she affected, and which was this morning of fine serge set
+on by a line of fur at hem and wrist, and topped by a little hat of
+black velvet which framed the vividness of her glorious hair, she
+looked the woman of the world, so that her words gained strength by
+force of contrast.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nobody would believe it," she prefaced, "but, Mary Ballard, some day
+when I'm tired of dancing through life, when I am weary of the
+adventures on the road, I'm going to build a home for little children,
+and spend my days with them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So the two girls dreamed dreams and saw visions of the future.  They
+sang and soared, they kissed and confided.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Whatever comes, life shall never be commonplace," Mary declared, and
+as the bell rang and she went to the table, she felt that now nothing
+could daunt her&mdash;the hard things would be merely a part of a glorious
+pilgrimage.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan's hot rolls were pronounced perfect, and Susan, serenely
+conscious of it, banished the second maid to the kitchen and waited on
+the table herself.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Here were five women of one clan.  She understood them all, she loved
+them all.  She gave even to Aunt Frances her due.  "They all holds
+their heads high," she had confided on one occasion to Roger Poole,
+"and Miss Frances holds hers so high that she almost bends back, but
+she knows how to treat the people who work for her, and she's always
+been mighty good to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's mood of exaltation lasted long after her guests had departed.
+She found herself singing as she climbed the stairs that night to her
+room.  And it was with this mood still upon her that she wrote to Roger
+Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her letter, penned on the full tide of her new emotion, was like wine
+to his thirsty soul.  It began and ended formally, but every line
+throbbed with hope and courage, and responding to the note which she
+had struck, he wrote back to her.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap14"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XIV
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary Writes From the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+From Among the Pines.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>The Tower Rooms.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+Dear Mr. Poole:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I have taken your rooms for mine, and this is my first evening in them.
+Pittiwitz is curled up under the lamp.  She misses you and so do I.
+Even now, it seems as if your books ought to be on the table; and that
+I ought to be talking to you instead of writing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I liked your letter.  It seemed to tell me that you were hopeful and at
+home.  You must tell me about the house and your Cousin Patty&mdash;about
+everything in your life&mdash;and you must send me your first story.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Here everything is the same.  Constance will be with me until spring,
+and we are to have a quiet Thanksgiving and a quiet Christmas with just
+the family, and Leila and the General.  Porter Bigelow goes to Palm
+Beach to be with his mother.  I don't know why we always count him in
+as one of the family except that he never waits for an invitation, and
+of course we're glad to have him.  Mother and father used to feel sorry
+for him; he was always a sort of "Poor-little-rich-boy" whose money cut
+him out from lots of good times that families have who don't live in
+such formal fashion as Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow seem to enjoy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As soon as Constance leaves, I am going to work.  I haven't told any
+one, for when I hinted at it, Constance was terribly upset, and asked
+me to live with her and Gordon.  Grace wants me to go to Paris with
+her; Barry and Leila have stated that I can have a home with them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I don't want a home with anybody.  I want to live my own life, as I
+have told you.  I want to try my wings.  I don't believe you quite like
+the idea of my working.  Nobody does, not even Grace Clendenning,
+although Grace seems to understand me better than any one else.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace and I have been talking to-day about life as a great adventure.
+And it seems to me that we have the right idea.  So many people go
+through life as just something to be endured, but I want to make things
+happen, or rather, if big things don't happen, I want to see in the
+little things something that is interesting.  I don't believe that any
+life need be common-place.  It is just the way we look at it.  I'm
+copying these words which I read in one of your books; perhaps you've
+seen them, but anyhow it will tell you better than I what I mean.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But life is a great adventure, and the worst of all fears is the fear
+of living.  There are many forms of success, many forms of triumph.
+But there is no other success that in any way approaches that which is
+open to most of the many men and women who have the right idea.  These
+are the men and the women who see that it is the intimate and homely
+things that count most.  They are the men and women who have the
+courage to strive for the happiness which comes only with labor and
+effort and self-sacrifice, and only to those whose joy in life springs
+in part from power of work and sense of duty."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aren't those words like a strong wind blowing from the sea?  I just
+love them.  And I know you will.  I am so glad that I can talk to you
+of such things.  Everybody has to have a friend who can understand&mdash;and
+that's the fine thing about our friendship&mdash;that we both have things to
+overcome, and that our letters can be reports of progress.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of course the things which I have to overcome are just little fussy
+woman things&mdash;but they are big to me because I am breaking away from
+family traditions.  All the women our household have followed the
+straight and narrow path of conventional living.  Even Grace does it,
+although she rebels inwardly&mdash;but Aunt Frances keeps her to it.  Once
+Grace tried to be an artist, and she worked hard in Paris, until Aunt
+Frances swooped down and carried her off&mdash;Grace still speaks of that
+time in Paris as her year out of prison.  You see she worked hard and
+met people who worked, too, and it interested her.  She had a studio
+apartment, and was properly chaperoned by a little widow who went with
+her and shared her rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Aunt Frances popped in on them suddenly one day and found a
+Bohemian party.  There wasn't anything wrong about it, Grace says, but
+you know Aunt Frances!  She has never ceased to talk about the frumpy
+crowd she met there.  She hated the students in their velvet coats and
+the women with their poor queer clothes.  And Grace loved them.  But
+she's given up the idea of ever living there again.  She says you can't
+do a thing twice and have it the same.  I don't know.  I only know that
+Grace may seem frivolous on the outside, but that underneath she is
+different.  She has taken up advanced ideas about women, and she says
+that I have them naturally, and that she didn't expect such a thing in
+Washington where everybody stops to think what somebody else is going
+to say.  But I haven't arrived at the point where I am really
+interested in Suffrage and things like that.  Grace says that I must
+begin to look beyond my own life, and perhaps when I get some of my own
+problems settled, I will.  And then I shall be taking up the problems
+of the girls in factories and the girls in laundries and the girls in
+the big shops, as Grace is.  She says that she may live like a
+bond-slave herself, but she'd like to help other women to be free.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now I must tell you about Delilah Jeliffe.  She had a house-warming
+last week.  The old house in Georgetown is a dream.  Delilah hasn't a
+superfluous or gorgeous thing in it.  Everything is keyed to the
+old-family note.  Some of the things are even shabby.  She has done
+away with flamingo colors, and her monkeys with the crystal ball and
+the peacock screen.  She has little stools in her drawing-room with
+faded covers of canvas work, and she has samplers and cracked
+portraits, and the china doesn't all match.  There isn't a sign of "new
+richness" in the place.  She keeps colored servants, and doesn't wear
+rings, and her gowns are frilly flowing white things which make her
+look like one of those demure grandmotherly young persons of the early
+sixties.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her little artist is a charming blond who doesn't come up to her
+shoulders, and Delilah hangs on every word he says.  For the moment he
+obscures all the other men on her horizon.  He made sketches of the way
+every room in her house ought to look.  And what seems to be the result
+of years of formal pleasant living really is the result of the months
+of hunting and hard work which he and Delilah have put in.  He even
+indicates the flowers she shall wear, and those which are to bloom next
+summer in her garden.  She affects heliotrope, and on the night of her
+house-warming she carried a tight bunch of it with a few pink rosebuds.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Really, in her new rôle Delilah is superb.  And, people are beginning
+to notice her and to call on her.  Even in this short time she has been
+invited to some very good houses.  She has a new way with her eyes, and
+drops her lashes over them, and is very still and lovely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Do you remember her leopard skins of last year?  Well, now she wears
+moleskins&mdash;a queer dolman-shaped wrap of them, and a little hat with a
+dull blue feather, and she drapes a black lace veil over the hat and
+looks like a duchess.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace Clendenning says that Delilah and her artist will achieve a
+triumph if they keep on.  They aren't trying to storm society, they are
+trying to woo it, and out of it the artist gets the patronage of the
+people whom he meets through Delilah.  Perhaps it will end by Delilah's
+marrying him.  But Grace says not.  She says that Delilah simply
+squeezes people dry, like so many oranges, and when she has what she
+wants, she throws them aside.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet Grace and Delilah get along very well together.  Grace has always
+made a study of clothes, because it is the only way in which she can
+find an outlet for her artistic tastes.  And she is interested in
+Delilah's methods.   She says that they are masterly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I am forgetting to tell you what Delilah said of you.  It was on
+the night of her house-warming.  She asked about you, and when I said
+that you had gone south to get atmosphere for some stories you were
+writing, she said:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you know it came to me yesterday, while I was in church, where I
+had seen him.  It was the same text, and that was what brought it back.
+He was <I>preaching</I>, my dear.  I remember that I sat in the front pew
+and looked up at him, and thought that I had never heard such a voice;
+and now, tell me why he has given it up, and why he is burying himself
+in the South?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At first I didn't know just what to say, and then I thought it best to
+tell the truth.  So I looked straight at her, and said: "He made a most
+unhappy marriage, and gave up his life-work.  But now his wife is dead,
+and some day he may preach again."  Was it wrong for me to say that?  I
+do hope you are going to preach; somehow I feel that you will.  And
+anyhow while people need never know the details of your story, they
+will have to know the outlines.  It seemed to me that the easiest way
+was to tell it and have it over.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of course Gordon has asked some questions, and I have told what I
+thought should be told.  I hope that you won't feel that I have been
+unwise.  I thought it best to start straight, and then there would be
+nothing to hide.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now may I tell you a little bit about Barry?  They want him to go
+away&mdash;back to England with Gordon and Constance.  You see Gordon looks
+at it without sentiment.  Gordon's sentiment stops at Constance.  He
+thinks that Barry should simply give Leila up, go away, and not come
+back until he can show a clear record.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of course I know that Gordon is right.  But I can't bear it&mdash;that's why
+I haven't been able to face things with quite the courage that I
+thought I could.  But since my talk with Grace, I am going to look at
+it differently.  I shall try to feel that Barry's going is best, and
+that he must ride away gallantly, and come back with trumpets blowing
+and flags flying.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And that's the way you must some day come into your own.&mdash;I like to
+think about it.  I like to think about victory and conquest, instead of
+defeat and failure.  Somehow thinking about a thing seems to bring it,
+don't you think?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, but this is such a long letter, and it is gossipy, and scrappy.
+But that's the way we used to talk, and you seemed to like it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now I'll say "Good-night."  Pittiwitz waked up a moment ago, and
+walked across this sheet, and the blot is where she stepped on a word.
+So that's her message.  But my message is Psalms 27:14.  You can look
+it up in father's Bible&mdash;I am so glad you took it with you.  But
+perhaps you don't have to look up verses; you probably know everything
+by heart.  Do you?
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+Sincerely ever,
+<BR><BR>
+MARY BALLARD.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>Among the Pines.</I>
+<BR><BR>
+My good little friend:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am not going to try to tell you what your letter meant to me.  It was
+the bluebird's song in the spring, the cool breeze in the desert,
+sunlight after storm&mdash;it was everything that stands for satisfaction
+after a season of discomfort or of discontent.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet, except that I miss the Tower Rooms, and miss, too, the great
+happiness I found in pursuing our friendship at close range, I should
+have no reason here either for discomfort or lack of content&mdash;if I feel
+the world somewhat barren, it is not because of what I have found, but
+because of what I have brought with me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I like to think of you in the Tower Rooms.  You always belonged there,
+and I felt like a usurper when I came and discovered that all of your
+rosy belongings had been moved down-stairs and my staid and stiff
+things were in their place.  It is queer, isn't it, the difference in
+the atmosphere made by a man and by a woman.  A man dares not surround
+himself with pale and pretty colors and delicate and dainty things,
+lest he be called effeminate&mdash;perhaps that's why men take women into
+their lives, so that they may have the things which they crave without
+having their masculinity questioned.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet the atmosphere which seems to fit you best is not merely one of
+rosiness and prettiness; it is rather that of sunshine and
+out-of-doors.  When you talk or write to me I have the sensation of
+being swept on and on by your enthusiasms&mdash;I seem to fly on strong
+wings&mdash;the quotation which you gave is the utterance of some one else,
+but you unerringly selected, and passed it on to me, and so in a sense
+made it your own.  I am going to copy it and illumine it, and keep it
+where I can see it at all times.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I find that I do not travel as fast as you toward my future.  I have
+shut myself up for many years.  I have been so sure that all the wine
+of life was spilled, that the path ahead of me was dreary, that I
+cannot see myself at all with trumpets blowing, with flags flying and
+the rest of it.  Perhaps I shall some day&mdash;and at least I shall try,
+and in the trying there will be something gained.  Some day, perhaps, I
+shall reach the upper air where you soar&mdash;perhaps I shall "mount as an
+eagle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Your message&mdash;&mdash;!  Dear child&mdash;do you know how sweet you are?  I don't
+know all the verses&mdash;but that one I do know.  Yet I had let myself
+forget, and you brought it back to me with all its strong assurance.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Your decision that it was best to tell what there is to tell, to let
+nothing be hidden, is one which I should have made long ago.  Only of
+late have I realized that concealment brings in its train a thousand
+horrors.  One lives in fear, dreading that which must inevitably come.
+Yet I do not think I must be blamed too much.  I was beaten and bruised
+by the knowledge of my overthrow.  I only wanted to crawl into a hole
+and be forgotten.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Even now, I find myself unfolding slowly.  I have lived so long in the
+dark, and the light seems to blind my eyes!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is strange that I should have remembered Delilah Jeliffe, but not
+strange that she should have remembered me; for I stood alone in the
+pulpit, but she was one of a crowd.  Since your letter, I have been
+thinking back, and I can see her as she sat reading in the front pew,
+big and rather fine with her black hair and her bold eyes.  I think
+that perhaps the thing which made me remember her was the fleeting
+thought that her type stood usually for the material in woman, and I
+wondered if in her case outward appearances were as deceptive as they
+were in my wife&mdash;with her saint's eyes, and her distorted moral vision.
+Perhaps I was intuitively right, and that beneath Delilah Jeliffe's
+exterior there is a certain fineness, and that these funny fads of
+dress and decorations are merely in some way her striving toward the
+expression of her real self.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+What you tell me of your talk with your cousin Grace interests me very
+much.  I fancy she is more womanly than she is willing to admit.  Yet
+she should marry.  Every woman should marry, except you&mdash;who are going
+to be my friend!  There peeps out my selfishness&mdash;but I shall let it
+stand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+No, I don't like the idea that you must work.  I don't want you to try
+your wings.  I want you to sit safe in your nest in the top of the
+Tower, and write letters to me!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Labor, office drudgery, are things which sap the color from a woman's
+cheeks, and strength from her body.  She grows into a machine, and you
+are a bird, to fly and light on the nearest branch and sing!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But now you will want to know something of my life, and of the house
+and of Cousin Patty.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The house has suffered from the years of poverty since the War.  Yet it
+has still about it something of the dignity of an ancient ruin.  It is
+a big frame structure with the Colonial pillars which belong to the
+period of its building.  Many of the rooms are closed.  My own suite is
+on the second floor&mdash;Cousin Patty's opposite, and adjoining her rooms
+those of an old aunt who is a pensioner.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There is little of the old mahogany which once made the rooms stately,
+and little of the old silver to grace the table.  Cousin Patty's
+poverty is combined, happily, with common sense.  She has known the
+full value of her antiques, and has preferred good food to family
+traditions.  Yet there are the old portraits and in her living-room a
+few choice pieces.  Here we have an open fire, and here we sit o'
+nights.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty is small, rather white and thin, and she is fifty-five.  I
+tell you her age, because in a way it explains many things which would
+otherwise puzzle you.  She was born just before the war.  She knew
+nothing of the luxury of the days of slavery.  She has twisted and
+turned and economized all of her life.  She has struggled with all the
+problems which beset the South in Reconstruction times, and she has
+come out if it all, sweet and shrewd, and with a point of view about
+women which astonishes me, and which gives us a chance for many
+sprightly arguments.  Her black hair is untouched with gray, she wears
+it parted and in a thick knot high on her head.  Her gowns are
+invariably of black silk, well cut and well made.  She makes them
+herself, and gets her patterns from New York!  Can you see her now?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Our arguments are usually about women, and their position in the world
+to-day.  You know I am conservative, clinging much to old ideals, old
+fashions, to the beliefs of gentler times&mdash;but Cousin Patty in this
+backwater of civilization has gone far ahead of me.  She believes that
+the hope of the South is in its women.  "They read more than the men,"
+she says, "and they have responded more quickly to the new social
+ideals."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But of our arguments more in another letter&mdash;this will serve, however,
+to introduce you to some of the astonishing mental processes of this
+little marooned cousin of mine.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For in a sense she is marooned.  Once upon a time when Cotton was king,
+and slave labor made all things possible, there was prosperity here,
+but now the land is impoverished.  So Cousin Patty does not depend upon
+the land.  She read in some of her magazines of a woman who had made a
+fortune in wedding cake.  She resolved that what one woman could do
+could be done by another.  Hence she makes and sells wedding cake, and
+while she has not made a fortune she has made a living.  She began by
+asking friends for orders; she now gets orders from near and far.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So all day there is the good smell of baking in the house, and the
+sound of the whisking of eggs.  And every day little boxes have to be
+filled.  Will you smile when I tell you that I like the filling of the
+little boxes?  And that while we talk o' nights, I busy myself with
+this task, while Cousin Patty does things with narrow white ribbon and
+bits of artificial orange blossoms, so that the packages which go out
+may be as beautiful and bride-y as possible.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is strange, when one thinks of it, that I came to your house on a
+wedding night, and here I live in a perpetual atmosphere of wedding
+blisses.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the morning I write.  In the afternoon I do other things.  The
+weather is not cold&mdash;it is dry and sunshiny&mdash;windless.  I take long
+walks over the hills and far away.  Some of it is desolate country
+where the boxed pines have fallen, or where an area has been burned but
+one comes now and then upon groves of shimmering and shining young
+trees,&mdash;is there any tree as beautiful as a young pine with the
+sunshine on it?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is rare to find a grove of old pines, yet there are one or two
+estates where for years no trees have been cut or burned, and beneath
+these tall old singing monarchs I sit on the brown needles, and write
+and write&mdash;to what end I know not.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I have not one finished story to show you, though the beginnings of
+many.  The pen is not my medium.  My thoughts seem to dry up when I try
+to put them on paper.  It is when I talk that I grow most eloquent.
+Oh, little friend, shall I ever make the world listen again?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am going to tell you presently of those who have listened, down
+here&mdash;such an audience&mdash;and in such an amphitheater!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+My walks take me far afield.  The roads are sandy, and I do not always
+follow them, preferring, rather, the dunes which remind me so much of
+those by the sea.  Once upon a time this ground was the ocean's bed&mdash;I
+have the feeling always that just beyond the low hills I shall glimpse
+the blue.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Now and then I meet some darkey of the old school with his cheery
+greeting; now and then on the highroad a schooner wagon sails by.
+These wagons give one the queer feeling of being set back to pioneer
+days,&mdash;do you remember the Pike's Peak picture at the Capitol with all
+the eager faces turned toward the setting sun?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Now and then I run across a hunting party from one of the big hotels
+which are getting to be plentiful in this healthy region, but these
+people with their sporting clothes and their sophistication always seem
+out of place among the pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now, since you have written to me of life as a journey on the
+highroad, I will tell you of my first adventure.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There's a schooner-man who comes from the sandhills on his way to the
+nearest resort with his chickens and eggs.  It is a three days'
+journey, and he camps out at night, sleeping in his wagon, building his
+fire in the open.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+One day he passed me as I sat tired by the wayside, and offered to give
+me a lift toward home.  I accepted, and rode beside him.  And thus
+began an acquaintance which interests me, and evidently pleases him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He is tall and loosely put together, this knight of the Sandy Road, but
+with the ease of manner which seems to belong to his kind.  There's
+good blood in these sand-hill people, and it shows in a lack of
+self-consciousness which makes one feel that they would meet a prince
+or an emperor without embarrassment.  Yet there's nothing of
+forwardness, nothing of impertinence.  It is a drawing-room manner,
+preserved in spite of generations of illiteracy and degeneration.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He is not an unpicturesque object.  Given a plumed hat, a doublet and
+hose, and he would look the part, and his manner would fit in with it.
+Given good English, his voice would never betray him for what he is.
+For another thing that these people have preserved is a softness of
+voice and an inflection which is Elizabethan rather than twentieth
+century American.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Having grown to know him fairly well, I fished for an invitation to
+visit his home.  I wanted to see where this gentlemanly backwoodsman
+spent the days which were not lived on the road.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I carried a rug with me, and slept for the first night under the open
+sky.  Have you ever seen a southern sky when it was studded with stars?
+If not, there's something yet before you.  There's no whiteness or
+coldness about these stars, they are pure gold, and warm with light.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+My schooner-man slept in his wagon, covered with an old quilt.  His
+mules were picketed close by, the dog curled himself beside his master,
+each getting warmth from the other.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+We cooked supper and breakfast over the coals&mdash;chickens broiled for our
+evening meal, ham and eggs for the morning.  We gave the dog the bones
+and the crusts.  I took bread with me, for Cousin Patty warned me that
+I must not depend upon my squire for food.  Cooking among these people
+is a lost art.  Cousin Patty believes that the regeneration of the poor
+whites of the South will be accomplished through the women.  "When they
+learn to cook," she says, "the men won't need whiskey.  When the
+whiskey goes, they'll respect the law."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A mile before we reached the end of our journey, we were met by the
+children of my schooner-squire.  Five of them&mdash;two boys, two girls, and
+a baby in the arms of the oldest girl.  They all had the gentle quiet
+and ease of the father&mdash;but they were unkempt little creatures,
+uncombed, unwashed, in sad-colored clothes.  That's the difference
+between the negro and the white man of this region.  The negro is
+cheerful, debonair, he sings, he dances, and he wears all the colors of
+the rainbow.  An old black woman who carries home my wash wore the
+other day a purple petticoat with a scarlet skirt looped above it, an
+old green sweater, and, tied over her head, a pink wool shawl.  Against
+the neutral background of sandy hill she was a delight to the eye.  The
+whites on the other hand seem like little animals, who have taken on
+the color of the landscape that they may be hidden.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But to go back to my sad children.  It seemed to me that in them I was
+seeing the South with new eyes, perhaps because I have been away just
+long enough to get the proper perspective.  And my life has been, you
+see, lived in the Southern cities, where one touches rarely the
+primitive.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The older boys are, perhaps, ten and twelve, blue-eyed and tow-headed.
+I saw few signs of affection or intelligence.  They did not kiss their
+father when he came, except the small girl, who ran to him and was
+hugged; the others seemed to practice a sort of incipient stoicism, as
+if they were too old, too settled, for demonstration.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The mother, as we entered, was like her children.  None of them has the
+initiative or the energy of the man.  They are subdued by the
+changeless conditions of their environment; his one adventure of the
+week keeps him alert and alive.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is a desolate country, charred pines sticking up straight from white
+sand.  It might be made beautiful if for every tree that they tapped
+for turpentine they would plant a new one.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But they don't know enough to make things beautiful.  The Moses of this
+community will be some man who shall find new methods of farming, new
+crops for this soil, who will show the people how to live.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now I come to a strange fairy-tale sort of experience&mdash;an
+experience with the children who have lived always among these charred
+pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+All that evening as I talked, their eyes were upon me, like the eyes of
+little wild creatures of the wood&mdash;a blank gaze which seemed to
+question.  The next day when I walked, they went with me, and for some
+distance I carried the baby, to rest the arms of the big girl, who is
+always burdened.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was in the afternoon that we drifted to a little grove of young
+pines, the one bit of pure green against the white and gray and black
+of that landscape.  The sky was of sapphire, with a buzzard or two
+blotted against the blue.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Here with a circle of the trees surrounding us, the children sat down
+with me.  They were not a talkative group, and I was overcome by a
+sense of the impossibility of meeting them on any common ground of
+conversation.  But they seemed to expect something&mdash;they were like a
+flock of little hungry birds waiting to be fed&mdash;and what do you think I
+gave them?  Guess.  But I know you have it wrong.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I recited "Flos Mercatorum," my Whittington poem!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was done on an impulse, to find if there was anything in them which
+would respond to such rhyme and rapture of words.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I gave it in my best manner, standing in the center of the circle.  I
+did not expect applause.  But I got more than applause.  I am not going
+to try to describe the look that came into the eyes of the oldest
+boy&mdash;the nearest that I can come to it is to say that it was the look
+of a child waked from a deep sleep, and gazing wide-eyed upon a new
+world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He came straight toward me.  "Where&mdash;did you&mdash;git&mdash;them words?" he
+asked in a breathless sort of way.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A man wrote them&mdash;a man named Noyes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are they true?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Say them again."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was not a request.  It was a command.  And I did say them, and saw a
+soul's awakening.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, there are people who won't believe that it can be done like
+that&mdash;in a moment.  But that boy was ready.  He had dreamed and until
+now no one had ever put the dreams into words for him.  He cannot read,
+has probably never heard a fairy tale&mdash;the lore of this region is
+gruesome and ghostly, rather than lovely and poetic.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Perhaps, 'way back, five, six generations, some ancestor of this lad
+may have drifted into London town, perhaps the bells sang to him, and
+subconsciously this sand-hill child was illumined by that inherited
+memory.  Somewhere in the back of his mind bells have been chiming, and
+he has not known enough to call them bells.  However that may be, my
+verses revealed to him a new heaven and a new earth.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Without knowing anything, he is ready for everything.  Perhaps there
+are others like him.  Cousin Patty says there are girls.  She insists
+that the girls need cook-books, not poetry, but I am not sure.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I shall go again to the pines, and teach that boy first by telling him
+things, then I shall take books.  I haven't been as interested in
+anything for years as I am in that boy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So, will you think of me as seeing, faintly, the Vision?  Your eyes are
+clearer than mine.  You can see farther; and what you see, will you
+tell me?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now about Barry.  I know how hard it is to have him leave you, and
+that under all your talk of trumpets blowing and flags flying, there's
+the ache and the heart-break.  I cannot see why such things should come
+to you.  The rest of us probably deserve what we get.  But you&mdash;I
+should like to think of you always as in a garden&mdash;you have the power
+to make things bloom.  You have even quickened the dry dust of my own
+dead life, so that now in it there's a little plot of the pansies of my
+thoughts of you, and there's rosemary, for remembrance, and there's the
+little bed of my interest in that boy&mdash;what seeds did you plant for it?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is raining here to-night.  I wonder it the rain is beating on the
+windows of the Tower Rooms, and if you are snug within, with Pittiwitz
+purring and the fire snapping, and I wonder if throughout all that rain
+you are sending any thought to me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Perhaps I shouldn't ask it.  But I do ask for another letter.  What the
+last was to me I have told you.  I shall live on the hope of the next.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+Faithfully and gratefully always,
+<BR><BR>
+ROGER POOLE.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap15"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XV
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which
+a March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The news that Barry must go away had been a blow to Leila's childish
+dreams of immediate happiness.  She knew that Barry was bitter, that he
+rebelled against the plans which were being made for him, but she did
+not know that Gordon had told the General frankly and flatly the reason
+for this delay in the matrimonial arrangements.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The General, true to his ancient code, had protested that "a man could
+drink like a gentleman," that Barry's good blood would tell.  "His wild
+oats aren't very wild&mdash;and every boy must have his fling."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon had listened impatiently, as to an ancient and outworn
+philosophy.  "The business world doesn't take into account the wild
+oats of a man, General," he had said.  "The new game isn't like the old
+one,&mdash;the convivial spirit is not the popular one among men of affairs.
+And that isn't the worst of it, with Barry's temperament there's danger
+of a breakdown, moral and physical.  If it were not for that, he could
+come into your office and practice law, as you suggest.  But he's got
+to get away from Washington.  He's got to get away from old
+associations, and you'll pardon me for saying it, he's got to get away
+from Leila.  She loves him, and is sorry for him, even though we've
+kept from her the knowledge of his fault.  She thinks we are all
+against him and her sympathy weakens him.  It was the same with her
+mother, Constance tells me.  She wouldn't believe that her boy could be
+anything but perfect, and John Ballard wasn't strong enough to
+counteract her influence.  Mary was the only one, and now that it has
+come to an actual crisis, even Mary blames me for trying to do what I
+know is best for Barry.  I want to take him over to the other side, cut
+him away from all that hampers him here, and bring him back to you
+stronger in fiber and more of a man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The General shook his head.  "Perhaps," he said, "but I can't bear to
+think of the hurt heart of my little Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They should never have been engaged," Gordon said, "but it won't make
+matters any better to let things go on.  If Leila doesn't marry Barry,
+she won't have to bear the burdens he will surely bring to her.  She'd
+better be unhappy with you to take care of her, than tied to him and
+unhappy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I'm an old man, and she is such a child.  Life for me is so short,
+and for her so long."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We must do what seems best for the moment, and let the future take
+care of itself.  Barry's only a boy.  They are neither of them ready
+for marriage&mdash;a few years of waiting won't hurt them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was in this strain that Gordon talked to Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It won't hurt you to wait."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Wait for what?" Barry flamed; "until Leila wears her heart out?  Until
+you teach her that I'm not&mdash;fit?  Until somebody else comes along and
+steals her, while I'm gone?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Is that the opinion you have of her constancy?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," Barry said, huskily, "she's as true as steel.  But I can't see
+the use of this, Gordon.  If I marry Leila, she'll make a man of me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She hasn't changed you during these last months," Gordon stated,
+inexorably, "and you mustn't run the risk of making her unhappy.  It is
+a mere business proposition that I am putting before you, Barry.  You
+must be able to support a wife before you marry one, and Washington
+isn't the place for you to start.  In a business like ours, a man must
+be at his best.  You are wasting your time here, and you've acquired
+the habit of sociability, which is just a habit, but it grows and will
+end by paralyzing your forces.  A man who's always ready to be with the
+crowd isn't the man that's ready for work, and he isn't the man who's
+usually onto his job.  I am putting this not from any moral or
+spiritual ideal, but from the commercial.  The man who wins out isn't
+the one with his brain fuddled; he's the one with his brain clear.
+Business to-day is too keen a game for any one to play who isn't
+willing to be at it all the time."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus practical common sense met the boy at every turn.  And he was
+forced at last for pride's sake to consent to Gordon's plans for him.
+But he had gone to Mary, raging.  "Is he going to run our lives?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He is doing it for your good, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why can't I go South with Roger Poole?&mdash;if I must go away?  He told me
+of a man who stayed in the woods with him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That would simply be temporary, and it would delay matters.  Gordon's
+idea is that in this way you'll be established in business.  If you
+went South you'd be without any remunerative occupation."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Doesn't Poole make a living down there?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He hasn't yet.  He's to try story-writing."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are you corresponding with him, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Resenting his catechism, she forced herself to say, quietly, "We write
+now and then."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What does Porter think of that?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter hasn't anything to do with it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He has, too.  You know you'll marry him, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall not.  I haven't the least idea of marrying Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then why do you let him hang around you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry," she was blazing, "I don't let him hang around.  He comes as he
+has always come&mdash;to see us all."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think for a moment that he'd come if it weren't for you?  He
+isn't craving my society, or Aunt Isabelle's, or Susan Jenks'."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry was glad to blame somebody else for something&mdash;he was aware of
+himself as the blackest sheep in the fold, but let those who had other
+sins hear them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He flung himself away from her&mdash;out of the house.  And for days he did
+not come home.  They kept the reason of his absence from Leila, and as
+far as they could from Constance.  But Mary went nearly wild with
+anxiety, and she found in Gordon a strength and a resourcefulness on
+which she leaned.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When Barry came back, he offered no further objections to their plans.
+Yet they could see that he was consenting to his exile only because he
+had no argument with which to meet theirs.  He refused to resign from
+the Patent Office until the last moment, as if hoping for some reprieve
+from the sentence which his family had pronounced.  He was moody,
+irritable, a changed boy from the one who had hippity-hopped with Leila
+on Constance's wedding night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Even Leila saw the change.  "Barry, dear," she said one evening as she
+sat beside him in her father's library, "Barry&mdash;is it because you hate
+to leave&mdash;me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He turned to her almost fiercely.  "If I had a penny of my own, Leila,
+I'd pick you up, and we'd go to the ends of the earth together."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And she responded breathlessly, "It would be heavenly, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He dallied with temptation.  "If we were married, no one could take you
+away from me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No one will ever take me away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know.  But they might try to make you give me up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why should they?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They'll say that I'm not worthy&mdash;that I'm a poor idiot who can't earn
+a living for his wife."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Barry," she whispered, "how can any one say such things?"  She
+knelt on a little stool beside him, and her brown hair curled madly
+about her pink cheeks.  "Oh, Barry," she said again, "why not&mdash;why not
+get married now, and show them that we can live on what you make, and
+then you needn't go&mdash;away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He caught at that hope.  "But, sweetheart, you'd be&mdash;poor."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'd have you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I couldn't take you to our old house.  It&mdash;belongs to Mary.  Father
+knew that Constance was to be married, so he tried to provide for Mary
+until she married; after that the property will be divided between the
+two girls.  He felt that I was a man, and he spent what money he had
+for me on my education."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want to live in Mary's house.  We could live with Dad."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," sharply.  Barry had been hurt when the General had seemed to
+agree so entirely with Gordon.  He had expected the offer of a place in
+the General's office, and it had not come.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If we marry, darling," he said, "we must go it alone.  I won't be
+dependent on any one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We could have a little apartment," her eyes were shining, "and Dad
+would furnish it for us, and Susan Jenks could teach me to cook and she
+could tell me your favorite things, and we'd have them, and it would be
+like a story book.  Barry, please."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He, too, thought it would be like a story book.  Other people had done
+such things and had been happy.  And once at the head of his own
+household he would show them that he was a man.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet he tried to put her away from him.  "I must not.  It wouldn't be
+right."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But as the days went on, and the time before his departure grew short,
+he began to ask himself, "Why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it was thus, with Romance in the lead, with Love urging them on,
+and with Ignorance and Innocence and Impetuosity hand in hand, that, at
+last, in the madness of a certain March moon, Leila and Barry ran away.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila had a friend in Rockville&mdash;an old school friend whom she often
+visited.  Barry knew Montgomery County from end to end.  He had fished
+and hunted in its streams, he had motored over its roads, he had danced
+and dined at its country houses, he had golfed at its country clubs, he
+had slept at its inns and worshiped in its churches.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So it was to Montgomery County and its county seat that they looked for
+their Gretna Green, and one night Leila kissed her father wistfully,
+and told him that she was going to see Elizabeth Dean.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Just for Saturday, Dad.  I'll go Friday night, and come back in time
+for dinner Saturday."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not motor out?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The train will be easier.  And I'll telephone you when I get there."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She took chances on the telephoning&mdash;for had he called her up, he would
+have found that she did not reach Rockville on Friday night, nor was
+she expected by Elizabeth Dean until Saturday in time for lunch.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was thus an evening and a night and the morning of the next day
+in which Little-Lovely Leila was to be lost to the world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She took the train for Rockville, but stopped at a station half-way
+between that town and Washington, and there Barry met her.  They had
+dinner at the little station restaurant&mdash;a wonderful dinner of ham and
+eggs and boiled potatoes, but the wonderfulness had nothing to do with
+the food; it had to do rather with Little-Lovely Leila's shining eyes
+and blushes, and Barry's abounding spirits.  He was like a boy out of
+school.  He teased Leila and wrote poetry on the fly-specked dinner
+card, reading it out loud to her, reveling in her lovely confusion.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When they finished, Leila telephoned to her father that she had arrived
+at Rockville and was safe.  If her voice wavered a little as she said
+it, if her eyes filled at the trustfulness of his affectionate
+response, these things were soon forgotten, as Barry caught up her
+little bag, and they left the station, and started over the hills in
+search of happiness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The way was rather long, but they had thought it best to avoid trolley
+or train or much-traveled roads, lest they be recognized.  And so it
+came about that they crossed fields, and slipped through the edges of
+groves, and when the twilight fell Little-Lovely Leila danced along the
+way, and Barry danced, too, until the moon came up round and gold above
+the blackness of the distant hills.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Once they came to a stream that was like silver, and once they passed
+through a ghostly orchard with budding branches, and once they came to
+a farmhouse where a dog barked at them, and the dog and the orchard and
+the budding trees and the stream all seemed to be saying:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>You are running away&mdash;-you are running away.</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now they had walked a mile, and there was yet another.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But what's a mile?" said Barry, and Little-Lovely Leila laughed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She wore a frock of pale yellow, with a thick warm coat of the same
+fashionable color.  Her hat was demurely tied under her little chin
+with black velvet ribbons.  She was like a primrose of the spring&mdash;and
+Barry kissed her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"May I tell Dad, when I get home to-morrow night?" she asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We'll wait until Sunday.  April Fool's Day, Leila.  We'll tell him,
+and he will think it's a joke.  And when he sees how happy we are, he
+will know we were right."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So like children they refused to let the thought of the future mar the
+joy of the present.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Once they rested on a fallen log in a little grove of trees.  The wind
+had died down, and the air was warm, with the still warmth of a
+Southern spring.  Between the trees they could see a ribbon of white
+road which wound up to a shadowy church.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The minister's house is next to the church," Barry told her; "in a
+half hour from now you'll be mine, Leila.  And no one can take you away
+from me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the wonder of that thought they were silent for a time, then:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How strange it will seem to be married, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It seems the most natural thing in the world to me.  But there will be
+those who will say I shouldn't have let you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I let myself.  It wasn't you.  Did you want my heart to break at your
+going, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a moment he held her in his arms, then he kissed her, gently, and
+let her go.  When they came back this way, she would be his wife.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The old minister asked few questions.  He believed in youth and love;
+the laws of the state were lenient.  So with the members of his family
+for witnesses, he declared in due time that this man and woman were
+one, and again they went forth into the moonlight.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now there was another little journey, up one hill and down another
+to a quaint hostelry&mdash;almost empty of guests in this early season.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A competent little landlady and an old colored man led them to the
+suite for which Barry had telephoned.  The little landlady smiled at
+Leila and showed the white roses which Barry had sent for her room, and
+the old colored man lighted all the candles.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a supper set out on the table in their sitting-room, with
+cold roast chicken and hot biscuits, a bottle of light wine, and a
+round cake with white frosting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila cut the cake.  "To think that I should have a wedding cake," she
+said to Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So they made a feast of it, but Barry did not open the bottle of wine
+until their supper was ended.  Then he poured two glasses.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To you," he whispered, and smiled at his bride.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then before his lips could touch it, he set the glass down hastily, so
+that it struck against the bottle and broke, and the wine stained the
+white cloth.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila looking up, startled, met a strange look.  "Barry," she
+whispered, "Barry, dear boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He rose and blew out the candles.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Let me tell you&mdash;in the dark," he said.  "You've got to know, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And in the moonlight he told her why they had wanted him to go away.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is because I've got to fight&mdash;devils."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At first she did not understand.  But he made her understand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was such a little thing in her yellow gown.  So little and young to
+deal with a thing like this.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But in that moment the child became a woman.  She bent over him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"My husband," she said, "nothing can ever part us now, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So love taught her what to say, and so she comforted him.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The next morning Elizabeth Dean met Leila Dick at the station.  That
+she was really meeting Leila Ballard was a thing, of course, of which
+she had no knowledge.  But Leila was acutely conscious of her new
+estate.  It seemed to her that the motor horn brayed it, that the birds
+sang it, that the cows mooed it, that the dogs barked it, "<I>Leila
+Ballard, Leila Ballard, Leila Ballard, wife of Barry&mdash;you're not Leila
+Dick, you're not, you're not, you're not.</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I never knew you to be so quiet," Elizabeth said at last, curiously.
+"What's the matter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila brought herself back with an effort.  "I like to listen," she
+said, "but I am usually such a chatterbox that people won't believe it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Somehow she managed to get through that day.  Somehow she managed to
+greet and meet the people who had been invited to the luncheon which
+was given in her honor.  But while in body she was with them, in spirit
+she was with Barry.  Barry was her husband&mdash;her husband who loved her
+and needed her in his life.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His confession of the night before had brought with it no deadening
+sense of hopelessness.  To her, any future with Barry was rose-colored.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it had changed her attitude toward him in this, that she no longer
+adored him as a strong young god who could stand alone, and whom she
+must worship because of his condescension in casting his eyes upon her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He needed her!  He needed little Leila Dick!  And the thought gave to
+her marriage a deeper meaning than that of mere youthful raptures.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had put her on the train that morning reluctantly, and had promised
+to call her up the moment she reached town.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So her journey toward Washington on the evening train was an hour of
+anticipation.  To those who rode with her, she seemed a very pretty and
+self-contained young person making a perfectly proper and commonplace
+trip on the five o'clock express&mdash;in her own mind, she was set apart
+from all the rest by the fact of her transcendant romance.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her father met her at the station and put her into a taxi.  All the way
+home she sat with her hand in his.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Did you have a good time?" he asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Heavenly, Dad."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They ate dinner together, and she talked of her day, wishing that there
+was nothing to keep from him, wishing that she might whisper it to him
+now.  She had no fear of his disapproval.  Dad loved her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+No call had come from Barry.  She finished dinner and wandered
+restlessly from room to room.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When nine o'clock struck, she crept into the General's library, and
+found him in his big chair reading and smoking.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sat on a little stool beside him, and laid her head against his
+knee.  Presently his hand slipped from his book and touched her curls.
+And then both sat looking into the fire.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If your mother had lived, my darling," the old man said, "she would
+have made things easier for you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"About Barry's going away?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It seems silly for him to go, Dad.  Surely there's something here for
+him to do."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon thinks that the trip will bring out his manhood, make him less
+of a boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't think Gordon understands Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you do, baby?  I'm afraid you spoil him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nobody could spoil Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't love him too much."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"As if I could."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not sure," the old man said, shrewdly, "that you don't.  And no
+man's worth it.  Most of us are selfish pigs&mdash;we take all we can
+get&mdash;and what we give is usually less than we ask in return."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But now she was smiling into the fire.  "You gave mother all that you
+had to give, Dad, and you made her happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, thank God," and now there were tears on the old cheeks; "for the
+short time that I had her&mdash;I made her happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When Barry came, he found her curled up in her father's arms.  Over her
+head the General smiled at this boy who was some day to take her from
+him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Barry did not smile.  He greeted the General, and when Leila came
+to him, tremulously self-conscious, he did not meet her eyes, but he
+took her hand in his tightly, while he spoke to her father.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You won't mind, General, if I carry Leila off to the other room.  I've
+a lot of things to say to her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course not.  I was in love once myself, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They went into the other room.  It was a long and formal parlor with
+crystal chandeliers and rose-colored stuffed furniture and gilt-framed
+mirrors.  It had been furnished by the General's mother, and his little
+wife had loved it and had kept it unchanged.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was dimly lighted now, and Leila in her white dinner gown and Barry
+tall and slender in his evening black were reflected by the long
+mirrors mistily.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry took her in his arms, and kissed her.  "My wife, my wife," he
+said, again and again, "my wife."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At first she yielded gladly, meeting his rapture with her own.  But
+presently she became aware of a wildness in his manner, a broken note
+in his whispers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she released herself, and stood back a little from him, and asked,
+breathing quickly, "Barry, what has happened?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Everything.  Since I left you this morning I've lost my place.  I
+found the envelope on my desk this morning&mdash;telling of my discharge.
+They said that I'd been too often away without sufficient excuse, and
+so they have dropped me from the rolls.  And you see that what Gordon
+said was true.  I can't earn a living for a wife.  Now that I have you,
+I can't take care of you&mdash;it is not much of a fellow that you've
+married, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, the little white face with the shining eyes!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then out of the stillness came her cry, like a bird's note, triumphant.
+"But I'm your wife now, and nothing can part us, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He caught up her hands in his.  "Dearest, dearest&mdash;don't you see that I
+can't ever tell them of our marriage until I can show them&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Show them what, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That I can take care of you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you mean that I mustn't even tell Dad, Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mustn't tell any one, not until I come back."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Every drop of blood was drained from her face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Until you come back.  Are you going&mdash;away?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I promised Gordon to-day that I would."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She swayed a little, and he caught her.  "I had to promise, Leila.
+Don't you see?  I haven't a penny, and I can't confess to them that
+I've married you.  I wanted to tell him that you were mine&mdash;that all
+your sweetness and dearness belonged to me.  I wanted to shout it to
+the world.  But I haven't a penny, and I'm proud, and I won't let
+Gordon think I've been a&mdash;fool."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Dad would help us."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think I'd beg him to give me what he hasn't offered, Leila?
+I've got to show them that I'm not a boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She struggled to bring herself out of the strange numbness which
+gripped her.  "If I could only tell Dad."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Surely it can be our own sweet secret, dearest."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She laid her cheek against his arm, in a dumb gesture of surrender, and
+her little bare left hand crept up and rested like a white rose petal
+against the blackness of his coat.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He laid his own upon it.  "Poor little hand without a wedding ring," he
+said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the numbness seemed to engulf her, to break&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Hush, Leila, dear one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she could not hush.  That very morning they had slipped the wedding
+ring over a length of narrow blue ribbon, and Barry had tied it about
+her neck.  To-morrow, he had promised, she should wear it for all the
+world to see.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she was not to wear it.  It must be hidden, as she had hidden it
+all day above her heart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila, you are making it hard for me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was the man's cry of selfishness, but hearing it, she put her own
+trouble aside.  He needed her, and her king could do no wrong.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she set herself to comfort him.  In the month that was left to them
+they would make the most of their happiness.  Then perhaps she could
+get Dad to bring her over in the summer, and he should show her London,
+and all the lovely places, and there would be the letters; she would
+write everything&mdash;and he must write.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You little saint," he said when he left her, "you're too good for me,
+but all that's best in me belongs to you&mdash;my precious."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She went to the door with him and said "good-night" bravely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then she shut the door and shivered.  When at last she made her way
+through the hall to the library, she seemed to be pushing against some
+barrier, so that her way was slow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+On the threshold of that room she stopped.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dad," she said, sharply.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"My darling."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He sprang to his feet just in time and caught her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She lay against his heart white and still.  The strain of the last two
+days had been too great for her, and Little-Lovely Leila had fainted
+dead away.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap16"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XVI
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The christening of Constance's baby brought together a group of
+feminine personalities, which, to one possessed with imagination, might
+have stood for the evil and beneficent fairies of the old story books.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson, in spite of the dignity
+of her hyphenated name, was a wee morsel.  Swathed in fine linen, she
+showed to the unprejudiced eye no signs of great beauty.  With a
+wrinkly-red skin, a funny round nose, a toothless mouth&mdash;she was like
+every other normal baby of her age, but to her family and friends she
+was a rare and unmatched object.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Even Aunt Frances succumbed to her charms.  "I must say," she remarked
+to Delilah Jeliffe, as they bent over the bassinet, "that she is
+remarkable for her age."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah shrugged.  "I'm not fond of them.  They're so red and squirmy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila protested hotly.  "Delilah, she's lovely&mdash;such little perfect
+hands."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Bird's claws!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary took up the chant.  "Her skin's like a rose leaf."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And Grace: "Her hair is going to be gold, like her mother's."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Hair?"  Delilah's tone was incredulous.  "She hasn't any."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back.  "What do
+you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery
+duck's-tail curl&mdash;bright as a sunbeam.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter.  "That isn't hair," she
+said; "it is just a sample of yellow silk."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter, coming up, was treated to a repetition of this remark.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Let us thank the Gods that it isn't red," was his fervent response.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace's hands went up to her own lovely hair.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh," she reproached him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter apologized.  "I was thinking of my carroty head.  Yours is
+glorious."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Artists paint it," Grace agreed pensively, "and it goes well with the
+right kind of clothes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah looked from one to the other.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You two would make a beautiful pair of saints on a stained glass
+window," she said reflectively, "with a spike of lilies and halos back
+of your heads."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Most women are ready for halos," Porter said, "and wings, but I can't
+see myself balancing a spike of lilies."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nor I," Grace rippled; "you'd better make it hollyhocks, Delilah&mdash;do
+you know the old rhyme
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="poem">
+"'A beau never goes<BR>
+Where the hollyhock blows'?"
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+"You've never lacked men in your life," Delilah told her, shrewdly,
+"but with that hair you won't be one of the comfortable married
+kind&mdash;it will be either a <I>grande passion</I> or a career for you.  If you
+don't find your Romeo, you'll be Mother Superior in a convent, the head
+of a deaconess home, or a nurse on a battle-field."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace's eyes sparkled.  "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very
+far away from my dreams.  Where did you get your wisdom?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm learning things from Colin Quale.  We study types together.  It's
+great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin Quale was Delilah's artist.  "Why didn't you bring him?"
+Constance asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had
+something for him to do.  He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear
+at the White House garden party.  It will keep him busy for the
+afternoon."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't
+believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't, duckie.  To me&mdash;you are a sort of family art gallery.  I hang
+you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old
+vivacity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The baby belongs to the Dutch school&mdash;with that nose."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a chorus of protest.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She looks like you," Delilah told him.  "Except for her nose, she's a
+Ballard.  There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful
+disposition."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon.  He stiffened.  Such women
+as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of
+femininity, but he doubted it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance
+whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take
+Barry," Delilah reproached him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila dropped the baby's hand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes," Gordon discussed the subject with evident reluctance, "he's
+going over with me, to learn the business&mdash;he may never have a better
+opportunity."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The light went out of Barry's eyes.  He left the little group, wandered
+to the window, and stood looking out.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary will go next," Delilah prophesied.  "With Constance and Barry on
+the other side, she won't be able to keep away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary shook her head.  "What would Aunt Isabelle and Susan Jenks and
+Pittiwitz do without me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What would I do without you?" Porter demanded, boldly.  "Don't put
+such ideas in her head, Delilah; she's remote enough as it is."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Mary was not listening.  Barry had slipped from the room, and
+presently she followed him.  Leila had seen him go, and had looked
+after him longingly, but of late she had seemed timid in her public
+demonstrations; it was as if she felt when she was under the eye of
+others that by some sign or look she might betray her secret.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary found Barry down-stairs in the little office, his head in his
+hands.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dear boy," she said, and touched his bright hair with hesitating
+fingers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He reached up and caught her hand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, brokenly, "what's the use?  I began wrong&mdash;and I guess
+I'll go on wrong to the end."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now she spoke with earnestness, both hands on his shoulders.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Barry, boy&mdash;if you fight, fight with all your weapons.  And don't
+let the wrong thoughts go on molding you into the wrong thing.  If you
+think you are going to fail, you'll fail.  But if you think of yourself
+as conquering, triumphant&mdash;if you think of yourself as coming back to
+Leila, victorious, why you'll come that way; you'll come strong and
+radiant, a man among men, Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was this convincing optimism of Mary Ballard's which brought to
+weaker natures a sense of actual achievement.  To hear Mary say, "You
+can do it," was to believe in one's own powers.  For the first time in
+his life Barry felt it.  Hitherto, Mary had seemed rather worrying when
+it came to rules of conduct&mdash;rather unreasonable in her demands upon
+him.  But now he was caught up on the wings of her belief in him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think I can?" a light had leaped into his tired eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know you can, dear boy," she bent and kissed him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You'll take care of Leila," he begged, and then, very low, "I'm afraid
+I've made an awful mess of things, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mustn't think of that&mdash;just think, Barry&mdash;of the day when you come
+back!  How all the wedding bells will ring!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But he thought of a wedding where there had been no bells.  He thought
+of Little-Lovely Leila, in her yellow gown on the night of the mad
+March moon.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You'll take care of her," he said again, and Mary promised.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the Bishop arrived, and certain old friends of the family.  As
+Barry and Mary made their way up-stairs, they met Susan with the mail.
+There was one long letter for Mary, which she tore open with eagerness,
+glanced at it, and tucked it into her girdle, then went on with winged
+feet.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter, glancing at her as she came in, was struck by the radiance of
+her aspect.  How lovely she was with that flush on her cheek, and with
+her sweet shining eyes!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With due formality and with the proper number of godfathers and
+godmothers, little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson was officially
+named.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+During the ceremony, Leila sat by her father's side, her hand in his.
+In these days the child clung to the strong old soldier.  When she had
+come back to consciousness on the night that she had fainted on the
+threshold of the library, he had asked, "My darling, what is it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And she had cried, "Oh, Dad, Dad," and had wept in his arms.  But she
+had not told him that she was Barry's wife.  It was because of Barry's
+going, she had admitted; it seemed as if her heart would break.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The General talked the situation over with Mary.  "How will she stand
+it, when he is really gone?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It will be better when the parting is over, and she settles down to
+other things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet that day, after the christening, Mary wondered if what she had said
+was true.  What would life hold for Leila when Barry was gone?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her own life without Roger Poole was blank.  Reluctantly, she was
+forced to admit it.  Constance, the baby, Porter, these were the
+shadows, Roger was the substance.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The letters which had passed between them had shown her depths in him
+which had hitherto been unrevealed.  Comparing him with Porter Bigelow,
+she realized that Porter could never say the things which Roger said;
+he could not think them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And while in the eyes of the world Roger was a defeated man, and Porter
+a successful one, yet there was this to think of, that Porter's
+qualities were negative rather than positive.  With all of his
+opportunities, he was narrowing his life to the pursuit of pleasure and
+his love for her.  Roger had shirked responsibility toward his fellow
+man by withdrawal; Porter was shirking by indifference.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she found herself, as many another woman has found herself, fighting
+the battle of the less fortunate.  Roger wanted her, yet pressed no
+claim.  Porter wanted her and meant to have her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had shown of late his impatience at the restraint which she had put
+upon him.  He had encroached more and more upon her time&mdash;demanded more
+and more.  He had been kept from saying the things which she did not
+want him to say only by the fact that she would not listen.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She knew that he was expecting things which could never be&mdash;and that by
+her silence she was giving sanction to his expectations.  Yet she found
+herself dreading to say the final word which would send him from her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The friendship between a man and a woman has this poignant quality&mdash;it
+has no assurance of permanence.  For, if either marries, the other must
+suffer loss; if either loves, the other must put away that which may
+have become a prized association.  As her friend, Mary valued Porter
+highly.  She had known him all her life.  Yet she was aware that she
+was taking all and returning nothing; and surely Porter had the right
+to ask of life something more than that.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sighed, and going to her desk, took out of it the letter which she
+had received in the morning mail.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She knew that the moment that she announced the contents of that letter
+would be a dramatic one.  Even if she did it quietly, it would have the
+effect of a bomb thrown into the midst of a peaceful circle.  She had a
+fancy that it would be best to tell Porter first.  He was to come back
+to dinner, so she dressed and went down early.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He found her in the garden.  There were double rows of hyacinths in the
+paths now, with tulips coming up between, and beyond the fountain was
+an amethyst sky where the young moon showed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She rose to greet him, her hands full of fragrant blossoms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He held her hand tightly.  "How happy you look, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because I'm here?  If you could only say that once truthfully."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is always good to have you,"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you won't tell a lie, and say you're happier, because of my
+coming?  Oh, Contrary Mary!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shook her head.  "If I said nice things to you, you'd
+misunderstand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps.  But why this radiance?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Good news."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"From whom?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What man?" with rising jealousy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"One who has given me the thing I want."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was plainly puzzled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't know what you mean."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A letter came this morning&mdash;a lovely letter in a long envelope."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She took a paper out of a magazine which lay on the stone bench by her
+side.  "Read that," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He read and his face went perfectly white, so that it showed chalkily
+beneath his red hair.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, "what have you done this for?  You know I'm not going
+to let you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You haven't anything to do with it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I have.  It is ridiculous.  You don't know what you are doing.
+You've never been tied to an office desk&mdash;you've never fought and
+struggled with the world."
+</P>
+
+<A NAME="img-240"></A>
+<CENTER>
+<IMG SRC="images/img-240.jpg" ALT="&quot;You don't know what you are doing.&quot;" BORDER="2" WIDTH="412" HEIGHT="570">
+<H4>
+[Illustration: "You don't know what you are doing."]
+</H4>
+</CENTER>
+
+<P>
+"Neither have you, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, if I haven't, is it my fault?" he demanded, "I was born into the
+world with this millstone of money around my neck, and a red head.  Dad
+sent me to school and to college, and he set me up in business.  There
+wasn't anything left for me to do but to keep straight, and I've done
+that for you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know," she was very sweet as she leaned toward him, "but, Porter,
+sometimes, lately, I've wondered if that's all that is expected of us."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"All?  What do you mean?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Aren't we expected to do something for others?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What others?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She wanted to tell him about Roger Poole and the boy in the pines.  Her
+eyes glowed.  But her lips were silent.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What others, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The people who aren't as fortunate as we are."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What people?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary was somewhat vague.  "The people who need us&mdash;to help."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Marry me, and you can be Lady Bountiful&mdash;dispensing charity."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It isn't exactly charity."  She had again the vision of Roger Poole
+and the boy.  "People don't just want our money&mdash;they want us
+to&mdash;understand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was not following her.  "To think that you should want to go out in
+the world&mdash;to work.  Tell me why you are doing it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because I need an outlet for my energies&mdash;the girl of limited income
+in these days is as ineffective as a jellyfish, if she hasn't some
+occupation."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You could never be a jellyfish.  Mary, listen, listen.  I need you,
+dear.  I've kept still for a year&mdash;Mary!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter, I can't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now he asked a question which had smouldered long in his breast.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Is there any one else?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Was there?  Her thoughts leaped at once to Roger.  What did he mean to
+her?  What could he ever mean?  He had said himself that he could
+expect nothing.  Perhaps he had meant that she must expect nothing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary, is it&mdash;Roger Poole?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her eyes came up to meet his; they were like stars.  "Porter, I
+don't&mdash;know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took the blow in silence.  The shadows were on them now.  In all the
+beauty of the May twilight, the little bronze boy grinned at love and
+at life.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Has he asked you, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No.  I'm not sure that he wants to marry me&mdash;I'm not sure that I want
+to marry him&mdash;I only know that he is different."  It was like Mary to
+put it thus, frankly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No man could know you without wanting to marry you.  But what has he
+to offer you&mdash;oh, it is preposterous."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She faced him, flaming.  "It isn't preposterous, Porter.  What has any
+man to offer any woman except his love?  Oh, I know you men&mdash;you think
+because you have money&mdash;but if&mdash;if&mdash;both of you loved me&mdash;you'd stand
+before me on your merits as men&mdash;there would be nothing else in it for
+me but that."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know.  And I'm willing to stand on my merits."  The temper which
+belonged to Porter's red head was asserting itself.  "I'm willing to
+stand on my merits.  I offer you a past which is clean&mdash;a future of
+devotion.  It's worth something, Mary&mdash;in the years to come when you
+know more of men, you'll understand that it is worth something."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know," she said, her hand on his, "it is worth a great deal.  But I
+don't want to marry anybody."  It was the old cry reiterated.  "I want
+to live the life I have planned for a little while&mdash;then if Love claims
+me, it must be <I>love</I>&mdash;not just a comfortable getting a home for myself
+along the lines of least resistance.  I want to work and earn, and know
+that I can do it.  If I were to marry you, it would be just because I
+couldn't see any other way out of my difficulties, and you wouldn't
+want me that way, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did want her.  But he recognized the futility of wanting her.  For a
+little while, at least, he must let her have her way.  Indeed, she
+would have it, whether he let her or not.  But Roger Poole should not
+have her.  He should not.  All that was primitive in Porter rose to
+combat the claims which she made for his rival.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I knew there'd be trouble when you let the Tower Rooms," he said
+heavily at last; "a man like that always appeals to a girl's sense of
+romance."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The Tower Rooms!  Mary saw Roger as he had stood in them for the first
+time amid all the confusion of Constance's flight from the home nest.
+That night he had seemed to her merely a person who would pay the
+rent&mdash;yet the money which she had received from him had been the
+smallest part.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She drifted away on the tide of her dreams, and Porter felt sharply the
+sense of her utter detachment from him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, tensely, "Mary, oh, my little Contrary Mary&mdash;you
+aren't going to slip out of my life.  Say that you won't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not slipping away from you," she said, "any more than I am
+slipping away from my old self.  I don't understand it, Porter.  I only
+know that what you call contrariness is a force within me which I can't
+control.  I wish that I could do the things which you want me to do, I
+wish I could be what Gordon and Constance and Barry and even Aunt
+Frances want&mdash;but there's something which carries me on and on, and
+seems to say, 'There's more than this in the world for you'&mdash;and with
+that call in my ears, I have to follow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He rose, and his head was up.  "All my life, I have wanted just one
+thing which has been denied me&mdash;and that one thing is you.  And no
+other man shall take you from me.  I suppose I've got to set myself
+another season of patience.  But I can wait, because in the end I shall
+get what I want&mdash;remember that, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't be too sure, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am so sure," lifting the hand which was weighted with the heavy
+ring, "I am so sure, that I will make a wager with fortune, that the
+day will come when this ring shall be our betrothal ring, I'll give you
+others, Mary, but this shall be the one which shall bind you to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She snatched her hand away.  "You speak as if you were&mdash;sure," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am.  I'm going to let you work and do as you please for a little
+while, if you must.  But in the end I'm going to marry you, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At dinner Mary announced the contents of her letter in the long
+envelope.  "I have received my appointment as stenographer in the
+Treasury, and I'm to report for duty on the twentieth."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was Aunt Frances who recovered first from the shock.  "Well, if you
+were my child&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace, with little points of light in her eyes, spoke smoothly, "If
+Mary were your child, she would be as dutiful as I am, mother.  But you
+see she isn't your child."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances snorted&mdash;"Dutiful."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon was glowering.  "It is rank foolishness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary flared.  "That's your point of view, Gordon.  You judge me by
+Constance.  But Constance has always been feminine and sweet&mdash;and I've
+never been particularly feminine, nor particularly sweet."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry followed up her defense.  "I guess Mary knows how to take care of
+herself, Gordon."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No woman knows how to take care of herself," Gordon was obstinate,
+"when it comes to the fight with economic conditions.  I should hate to
+think of Constance trying to earn a living."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Gordon, dear," Constance's voice appealed, "I couldn't&mdash;but Mary
+can&mdash;only I hate to see her do it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't," said Grace, stoutly.  "I envy her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances fixed her daughter with a stern eye.  "Don't encourage her
+in her foolishness, Grace," she said; "each of you should marry and
+settle down with some nice man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But what man, mother?" Grace, leaning forward, put the question, with
+an irritating air of doubt.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There are a half dozen of them waiting."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nice boys!  But a man.  Find me one, mother, and I'll marry him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The trouble with you and Mary," Porter informed her, "is that you
+don't want a man.  You want a hero."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace nodded.  "With a helmet and plume, and riding on a steed&mdash;that's
+my dream&mdash;but mother refuses to let me wander in Arcady where such
+knights are found."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think," Constance remarked happily, "that now and then they are
+found in every-day life, only you and Mary won't recognize them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+From the other side her husband smiled at her.  "She thinks I'm one,"
+he said, and his fine young face was suffused by faint color.  "She
+thinks I'm one.  I hope none of you will ever undeceive her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Under the table Leila's little hand was slipped into Barry's big one.
+She could not proclaim to the world that she had found her knight, and
+loved him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances, very stiff and straight in her jetted dinner gown,
+resumed, "I wish it were possible to give girls a dose of common sense,
+as you give them cough syrup."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>Mother!</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Aunt Frances, mounted on her grievance, rode it through the salad
+course.  She had wanted Grace to marry&mdash;her beauty and her family had
+entitled her to an excellent match.  But Grace was single still,
+holding her own against all her mother's arguments, maintaining in this
+one thing her right to independent action.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Isabelle, straining her ears to hear what it was all about, asked Mary,
+late that night, "What upset Frances at dinner?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary told her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think I'm wrong, Aunt Isabelle?" she asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The gentle lady sighed, "If you feel that it is right, it must be right
+for you.  But you're trying to be all head, dear child.  And there's
+your heart to reckon with."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary flushed "I know.  But I don't want my heart to speak&mdash;yet."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle patted her hand.  "I think it has&mdash;spoken," she said
+softly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary clung to her.  "How did you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We who have dull ears have often clear eyes&mdash;it is one of our
+compensations, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap17"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XVII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For;
+and in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It might have been by chance that Delilah Jeliffe driving in her
+electric through a broad avenue on the afternoon following the
+christening of Constance's baby, met Porter Bigelow, and invited him to
+go home with her for a cup of tea.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There were certain things which Delilah wanted of Porter.  Perhaps she
+wanted more than she would ever get.  But to-day she had it in her mind
+to find out if he would go with her to the White House garden party.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin Quale was little and blond.  Because of his genius, his presence
+had added distinction to her entrances and exits.  But at the coming
+function, she knew that she needed more than the prestige of
+genius&mdash;among the group of distinguished guests who would attend, the
+initial impression would mean much.  Porter's almost stiff stateliness
+would match the gown she was to wear.  His position, socially, was
+impregnable; he had wealth, and youth, and charm.  He would, in other
+words, make a perfectly correct background for the picture which she
+designed to make of herself.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The old house at Georgetown, to which they came finally, was set back
+among certain blossoming shrubs and bushes.  A row of tulips flamed on
+each side of the walk.  Small and formal cedars pointed their spired
+heads toward the spring sky.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the door, as they ascended the steps, appeared Colin Quale.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Come in," he said, "come in at once.  I want you to see what I have
+done for you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He spoke directly to Delilah.  It was doubtful if he saw Porter.  He
+was blind to everything except the fact that his genius had designed
+for Delilah Jeliffe a costume which would make her fame and his.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They followed him through the wide hall to the back porch in which he
+had set up his easel.  There, where a flowering almond bush flung its
+branches against a background of green, he had worked out his idea.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A water-color sketch on the easel showed a girl in white&mdash;a girl who
+might have been a queen or an empress.  Her gown partook of the
+prevailing mode, but not slavishly.  There was distinction in it, and
+color here and there, which Colin explained.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It must be of sheer white, with many flowing flounces, and with faint
+pink underneath like the almond bloom.  And there must be a bit of
+heavenly blue in the hat, and a knot of green at the girdle&mdash;and a veil
+flung back&mdash;you see?&mdash;there'll be sky and field and flowers and a white
+cloud&mdash;all the delicate color and bloom&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Still explaining, he was at last induced to leave the picture, and have
+tea.  While Delilah poured, Porter watched the two, interested and
+diverted by enthusiasms which seemed to him somewhat puerile for a man
+who could do real things in the world of art.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet he saw that Delilah took the little man very seriously, that she
+hung on his words of advice, and that she was obedient to his demands
+upon her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She'll marry him some day," he said to himself, and Delilah seemed to
+divine his thought, for when at last Colin had rushed back to his
+sketch, she settled herself in her low chair, and told Porter of their
+first meeting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'll begin at the beginning," she said; "it is almost too funny to be
+true, and it could not possibly have happened to any one but me and
+Colin.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It was last summer when I was on the North Shore.  Father and I stayed
+at a big hotel, but I was crazy to get acquainted with the cottage
+colony.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But somehow I didn't seem to make good&mdash;you see that was in my crude
+days when I wanted to be a cubist picture instead of a daguerreotype.
+I liked to be startling, and thought that to attract attention was to
+attract friends&mdash;but I found that I did not attract them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"One night in August there was a big dance on at one of the hotels, and
+I wanted a gown which should outshine all the others&mdash;the ball was to
+be given for the benefit of a local chanty, and all the cottage colony
+would attend.  I sent an order for a gown to my dressmaker, and she
+shipped out a strange and wonderful creation.  It was an imported
+affair&mdash;you know the kind&mdash;with a bodice of a string of jet and a wisp
+of lace&mdash;with a tulle tunic, and a skirt of gold brocade that was so
+tight about my feet that it had the effect of Turkish trousers.  For my
+head she sent a strip of gold gauze which was to be swathed around and
+around my hair in a sort of nun's coif, so that only a little knot
+could show at the back and practically none in front.  It was the last
+cry in fashions.  It made me look like a dream from the Arabian Nights,
+and I liked it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She laughed, and, in spite of himself, Porter laughed with her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I wore it to the dance, and it was there that I met Colin Quale.  I
+wish I could make you see the scene&mdash;the great ballroom, and all the
+other women staring at me as I came in&mdash;and the men, smiling.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I was in my element.  I thought, in those days, that the test of charm
+was to hold the eyes of the multitude.  To-day I know that it is to
+hold the eyes of the elect, and it is Colin who has taught me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I had danced with a dozen other men when he came up to claim me.  I
+scarcely remembered that I had promised him a dance.  When he was
+presented to me I had only been aware of a pale little man with
+eye-glasses and nervous hands who had stared at me rather too steadily.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We danced in silence for several minutes and he danced divinely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He stopped suddenly.  'Let's get out of here,' he said.  'I want to
+talk to you.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I looked at him in amazement.  'But I want to dance.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'You can always dance,' he said, quietly, 'but you cannot always talk
+to me.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There was nothing in his manner to indicate the preliminaries of a
+flirtation.  He was perfectly serious and he evidently thought that he
+was offering me a privilege.  Curiosity made me follow him, and he led
+the way down the hall to a secluded reception room where there was a
+long mirror, a little table, and a big bunch of old-fashioned roses in
+a bowl.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"On our way we passed a row of chairs, where some one had left a wrap
+and a scarf.  Colin snatched up the scarf&mdash;it was a long wide one of
+white chiffon.  The next morning I returned it to him, and he found the
+owner.  I am not sure what explanation he made for his theft, but it
+was undoubtedly attributed to the eccentricities of genius!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, when, as I said, we reached the little room, he pulled a chair
+forward for me, so that I sat directly in front of the mirror.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I remember that I surveyed myself complacently.  To my deluded eyes,
+my appearance could not be improved.  My head, swathed in its golden
+coif, seemed to give the final perfect touch."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She laughed again at the memory, and Porter found himself immensely
+amused.  She had such a cool way of turning her mental processes inside
+out and holding them up for others to see.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"As I sat there, stealing glances at myself, I became conscious that my
+little blond man was studying me.  Other men had looked at me, but
+never with such a cold, calculating gaze&mdash;and when he spoke to me, I
+nearly jumped out of my shoes&mdash;his voice was crisp, incisive.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'Take it off,' he said, and touched the gauze that tied up my head.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I gasped.  Then I drew myself up in an attempt at haughtiness.  But he
+wasn't impressed a bit.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'I suppose you know that I am an artist, Miss Jeliffe,' he said, 'and
+from the moment you came into the room, I haven't had a bit of peace.
+You're spoiling your type&mdash;and it affects me as a chromo would, or a
+crude crayon portrait, or any other dreadful thing.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you know how it feels to be called a 'dreadful thing' by a man like
+that?  Well, it simply made me shrivel up and have shivers down my
+spine.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'But why?' I stammered.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'Women like you,' he said, 'belong to the stately, the aristocratic
+type.  You can be a <I>grande dame</I> or a duchess&mdash;and you are making of
+yourself&mdash;what?  A soubrette, with your tango skirt and your strapped
+slippers, and your hideous head-dress&mdash;take it off.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'But I can't take it off,' I said, almost tearfully; 'my hair
+underneath is&mdash;awful.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'It doesn't make any difference about your hair underneath&mdash;it can't
+be worse than it is,' he roared.  'I want to see your coloring&mdash;take it
+off.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And I took it off.  My hair was perfectly flat, and as I caught a
+glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to laugh, to shriek.  But
+Colin Quale was as solemn as an owl.  'Ah,' he said, 'I knew you had a
+lot of it!'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He caught up the scarf which he had borrowed and flung it over my
+shoulders.  He gave a flick of his fingers against my forehead and
+pulled down a few hairs and parted them.  He whisked a little table in
+front of me, and thrust the bunch of roses into my arms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'Now look at yourself,' he commanded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I looked and looked again.  I had never dreamed that I could be like
+that.  The scarf and the table hid every bit of that Paris gown, and
+showed just a bit of white throat.  My plain parted hair and the
+roses&mdash;I looked," and now Delilah was blushing faintly, "I looked as I
+had always wanted to look&mdash;like the lovely ladies in the old English
+portraits.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'Do you like it?' Colin asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He knew that I liked it from my eyes, and for the first time since I
+had met him, he laughed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"'All my life,' he said, 'I have been looking for just such a woman as
+you.  A woman to make over&mdash;to develop.  We must be friends, Miss
+Jeliffe.  You must let me know where I can see you again.'
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, I didn't dance any more that night.  I wrapped the scarf about
+my head, and went back to my hotel.  Colin Quale went with me.  All the
+way he talked about the sacredness of beauty.  He opened my eyes.  I
+began to see that loveliness should be suggested rather than
+emphasized.  And I have told you this because I want you to understand
+about Colin.  He isn't in love with me.  I rather fancy that back home
+in Amesbury or Newburyport, or whatever town it is that he hails from,
+there's somebody whom he'll find to marry.  To him I am a statue to be
+molded.  I am clay, marble, a tube of paint, a canvas ready for his
+brush.  It was the same way with this old house.  He wanted a setting
+for me, and he couldn't rest until he had found it.  He has not only
+changed my atmosphere, he has changed my manner&mdash;I was going to say my
+morals&mdash;he brings to me portraits of Romney ladies and Gainsborough
+ladies&mdash;until I seem positively to swim in a sea of stateliness.  And
+what I said just now about manners and morals is true.  A woman lives
+up to the clothes she wears.  If you think this change is on the
+surface, it isn't.  I couldn't talk slang in a Gainsborough hat, and be
+in keeping, so I don't talk slang; and a perfect lady in a moleskin
+mantle must have morals to match; so in my little mantle I cannot tell
+a lie."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To see her with lowered lashes, telling it, was the funniest thing in
+the world, and Porter shouted.  Then her lashes were, for a moment,
+raised, and the old Delilah peeped out, shrewd, impish.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He wants me to change my name.  No, don't misunderstand me&mdash;not my
+last one.  But the first.  He says that Delilah smacks of the
+adventuress.  I don't think he is quite sure of the Bible story, but he
+gets his impressions from grand opera&mdash;and he knows that the Delilah of
+the Samson story wasn't nice&mdash;not in a lady-like sense.  My middle name
+is Anne.  He likes that better."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Lady Anne?  You'll look the part in that garden party frock he is
+designing for you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now she had reached the question toward which she had been working.
+"Shall you go?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shook his head.  "I doubt it.  It isn't a function from which one
+will be missed.  And the Ballards won't be there.  Mary is going over
+to New York with Constance for a few days before the sailing.  I'm to
+join them on the final day."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you won't go to the garden party without Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He found himself moved, suddenly, to speak out to her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She wouldn't go if she were here&mdash;not with me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Contrary Mary?" she drawled the words, giving them piquant suggestion.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It isn't contrariness.  Her independence is characteristic.  She won't
+let me do things because she wants to do them by herself.  But some day
+she'll let me do them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He said it grimly, and Delilah flashed a glance at him, then said
+carefully, "It would be a pity if she should fancy&mdash;Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She won't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You can't tell&mdash;pity leads to the softer feeling, you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why should she pity him?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's his past."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"His past?  Roger Poole's?  What do you know of it, Delilah?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As he leaned forward to ask the eager question, he knew that by all the
+rules of the game he should not be discussing Mary with any one.  But
+he told himself hotly that it was for Mary's good.  If things had been
+hidden, they should be revealed&mdash;the sooner the better.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah gave him the details dramatically.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then his wife is dead?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  But before that the scandal lost him his church.  Nobody seems
+to know much of it all, I fancy.  Mary only gave me the outline."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And she knows?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Roger told her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The chances are that there's&mdash;another side."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He knew that it was a small thing to say.  He would not have said it to
+any one but Delilah.  She would not think him small.  To her all things
+would be fair for a lover.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Before he went, that afternoon, he had promised to go with Delilah to
+the White House garden party.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Hence a week later there floated within the vision of the celebrities
+and society folk, gathered together on the spacious lawn of the
+executive mansion, a lovely lady in faint rose-white, with a touch of
+heavenly blue in her wide hat, from which floated a veil which half hid
+her down-drooped eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+People began at once to ask, "Who is she?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When it was discovered that her name was Jeliffe, and that she was not
+a distinguished personage, it did not matter greatly.  There was about
+her an air of distinction&mdash;a certain quiet atmosphere of withdrawal
+from the common herd which had nothing in it of haughtiness, but which
+seemed to set her apart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter, following in her wake as she swept across the green, thought of
+the girl in leopard skins, whose unconventionality had shocked him.
+Surely in this woman was developed a sense of herself as the center of
+a picture which was almost uncanny.  He found himself contrasting
+Mary's simplicity and lack of pose.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's presence here to-day would have meant much to a few people who
+knew and loved her; it would have meant nothing to the crowd who stared
+at Delilah Jeliffe.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin Quale was there to enjoy the full triumph of the transformation.
+He hovered at a little distance from Delilah, worshiping her for the
+genius which met and matched his own.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall paint her in that," he said to Porter.  "It will be my
+masterpiece.  And if you could have seen her on the night I met her&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She told me."  Porter was smiling.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It was like one of the old masters daubed by a novice, or like a room
+whitewashed over rare carvings&mdash;everything was hidden which should have
+been shown, and everything was shown which should have been hidden.  It
+was monstrous.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There are few women," he went on, "whom I could make over as I have
+made her over.  They have not the adaptability&mdash;the temperament.  There
+was one whom I could have transformed.  But I was not allowed.  She was
+little and blonde and the wife of a clergyman; she looked like a
+saint&mdash;-and she should have worn straight things of clear green or red,
+or blue.  But she wore black.  I've sometimes wondered if she was such
+a saint as she looked.  There was a divorce afterward, I believe, and
+another man.  And she died."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter, listening idly, came back.  "What type was she?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Fra Angelico&mdash;to perfection.  I should have liked to dress her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Did you ever tell her that you wanted to do it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  And she listened.  It was then that I gained my impression&mdash;that
+she was not a saint.  One night there was a little entertainment at the
+parish house and I had my way.  I made of her an angel, in a red robe
+with a golden lyre&mdash;and I painted her afterward.  She used to come to
+my studio, but I'm not sure that Poole liked it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Poole?"  Porter was tense.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Her husband.  He could not make her happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Was she&mdash;the one in fault?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin shrugged.  "There are always two stories.  As I have said, she
+looked like a saint."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I should like to see&mdash;the picture."  Porter tried to speak lightly.
+"May I come up some day to your rooms?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin's face beamed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm getting into new quarters.  I shall want your opinion&mdash;call me up
+before you come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was Colin who went home with Delilah in Porter's car.  Porter
+pleaded important business, and walked for an hour around the Speedway,
+his brain in a whirl.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then Mary knew&mdash;Mary <I>knew</I>&mdash;and it had made no difference in her
+thought of Roger Poole!
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap18"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XVIII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World, and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+<I>In the Tower Rooms&mdash;June.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I have been working in the office for a week, and it has been the
+hardest week of my life.  But please don't think that I have any
+regrets&mdash;it is only that the world has been so lovely outside, and that
+I have been shut in.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am beginning to understand that the woman in the home has a freedom
+which she doesn't sufficiently value.  She can run down-town in the
+morning; or slip out in the afternoon, or put off until to-morrow
+something which should have been done to-day.  But men can't run out or
+slip away or put off&mdash;no matter if the sun is shining, or the birds
+singing, or the wind calling, or the open road leading to adventure.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet there are compensations, and I am trying to see them.  I am trying
+to live up to my theories.  And I am sustained by the thought that at
+last I am a wage-earner&mdash;independent of any one&mdash;capable of buying my
+own bread and butter, though all masculine help should fail!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle is a dear, and so is Susan Jenks.  And that's another
+thing to think about.  What will the wage-earning part of the world do,
+when there are no home-keepers left?  If it were not for Aunt Isabelle
+and Susan, there wouldn't be any one to trail after me with cushions
+for my tired back, and cold things for me to drink on hot days, and hot
+things to drink on cool days.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I begin to perceive faintly the masculine point of view.  If I were a
+man I should want a wife for just that&mdash;to toast my slippers before the
+fire as they do in the old-fashioned stories, to have my dinner piping
+hot, and to smooth the wrinkles out of my forehead.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+That's why I'm not sure that I should make a comfortable sort of wife.
+I can't quite see myself toasting the slippers.  But I can see
+Constance toasting them, or Leila&mdash;but Grace and I&mdash;you see, after all,
+there are home women and the other kind, and I fancy that I'm the other
+kind.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This, you'll understand, is a philosophy founded on the vast experience
+of a week in the workaday world&mdash;I'll let you know later of any further
+modification of my theories.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Well, the house seems empty with just the three of us, and Pittiwitz.
+I miss Constance beyond words, and the beautiful baby.  Constance
+wanted to name her for me, but Gordon insisted that she should be
+called after Constance, so they compromised on Mary-Constance, such a
+long name for such a mite.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+We all went to New York to see them off.  By "all," I mean our
+crowd&mdash;Aunt Frances and Grace, Leila and the General&mdash;oh, poor little
+Leila&mdash;Delilah and Colin Quale, Aunt Isabelle and I, Susan Jenks with
+the baby in her arms until the very last minute&mdash;and Porter Bigelow.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At the boat Leila went all to pieces.  I could never have believed that
+our gay little Leila would have taken anything so hard&mdash;and it was
+pitiful to see Barry.  But I can't talk about that&mdash;I can't think about
+it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter was dear to Leila.  He treated her as if she were his own little
+sister, and it was lovely.  He took her right away from the General,
+when the ship was leaving the dock.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Brace up, little girl," he said; "he'll be back before you know it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He literally carried her to a taxi and put her in, and then began such
+a day.  We did all of the delightful things that one can do in New York
+on a summer day, beginning with breakfast at a charming inn on Long
+Island, and ending with a roof garden at night.  And that night Leila
+was so tired that she went to sleep all in a minute, like a child, and
+forgot to grieve.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Since we came back to Washington, Porter has kept it up, not letting
+Leila miss Barry any more than possible, and playing big brother to
+perfection.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is queer how we misjudge people.  If any one had told me that Porter
+could be so sweet and tender to anybody, I wouldn't have believed it.
+But perhaps Leila brings out that side of him.  Now I am independent,
+and aggressive, and I make Porter furious, and most of the time we
+fight.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As I said, the house seems empty&mdash;but I am not in it much now.  If I
+had not had my work, I think I should have gone crazy.  That's why men
+don't get silly and hysterical and morbid like women&mdash;they are saved by
+the day's work.  I simply have to forget my troubles while I transcribe
+my notes on the typewriter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of course you know what life in the Departments is without my telling
+you.  But to me it isn't monotonous or machine-like.  I am awfully
+interested in the people.  Of course my immediate work is with the nice
+old Chief.  I'm glad he is old, and gray-haired.  It makes me feel
+comfortable and chaperoned.  Do you know that I believe the reason that
+most girls hate to go out to work is because of the loss of protection.
+You see we home girls are always in the care of somebody.  I've been
+more than usually independent, but there has always been some one to
+play propriety in the background.  When I was a tiny tot there was my
+nurse.  Later at kindergarten I was sent home in a 'bus with all the
+other babies, and with a nice teacher to see that we arrived safely.
+Then there was mother and father and Barry and Constance, some of them
+wherever I went&mdash;and finally, Aunt Isabella.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But in the office, I am not Mary Ballard, Daughter of the Home.  I am
+Mary Ballard, Independent Wage-Earner&mdash;stenographer at a thousand a
+year.  There's nobody to stand between me and the people I meet.  No
+one to say, "Here is my daughter, a woman of refinement and breeding;
+behind her I stand ready to hold you accountable for everything you may
+do to offend her."  In the wage-earning world a woman must stand for
+what she is&mdash;and she must set the pace.  So, in the office I find that
+I must have other manners than those in my home.  I can't meet men as
+frankly and freely.  I can't laugh with them and talk with them as I
+would over a cup of tea at my own little table.  If you and I had met,
+for example, in the office, I should have put up a barrier of formality
+between us, and I should have said, "Good-morning" when I met you and
+"Good-night" when I left you, and it would have taken us months to know
+as much about each other as you and I knew after a week in the same
+house.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I suppose if I live here for years and years, that I shall grow to look
+upon my gray-haired chief as a sort of official grandfather, and my
+fellow-clerks will be brothers and sisters by adoption, but that will
+take time.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I wonder if I shall work for "years and years"?  I am not sure that I
+should like it.  And there you have the woman of it.  A man knows that
+his toiling is for life; unless he grows rich and takes to golf.  But a
+woman never looks ahead and says, "This thing I must do until I die."
+She always has a sense of possible release.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am not at all sure that I am a logical person.  In one breath I am
+telling you that I like my work; and in the next I am saying that I
+shouldn't care to do it all my life.  But at least there's this for it,
+that just now it is a heavenly diversion from the worries which would
+otherwise have weighed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+What did you do about lunches?  Mine are as yet an unsolved problem.  I
+like my luncheon nicely set forth on my own mahogany, with the little
+scalloped linen doilies that we've always used.  And I want my own tea
+and bread and butter and marmalade, and Susan's hot little made-overs.
+But here I am expected to rush out with the rest, and feast on
+impossible soups and stews and sandwiches in a restaurant across the
+way.  The only alternative is to bring my lunch in a box, and eat it on
+my desk.  And then I lose the breath of fresh air which I need more
+than the food.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, these June days!  Are they hot with you?  Here they are heavenly.
+When the windows are open, the sweet warm air blows up from the river
+and across the White Lot, and we get a whiff of roses from the gardens
+back of the President's house; and when I reach home at night, the
+fragrance of the roses in our own garden meets me long before I can see
+the house.  We have wonderful roses this year, and the hundred-leaved
+bush back of the bench by the fountain is like a rosy cloud.  I made a
+crown of them the other day, and put them on the head of the little
+bronze boy, and I took a picture which I am sending.  Somehow the boy
+of the fountain has always seemed to me to be alive, and to have in him
+some human quality, like a faun or a dryad.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Last night I sat very late in the garden, and I thought of what you
+said to me that night when you tried to tell me about your life.  Do
+you remember what you said&mdash;that when I came into it, it seemed to you
+that the garden bloomed?  Well, I came across this the other day, in a
+volume of Ruskin which father gave me, and which somehow I've never
+cared to read&mdash;but now it seems quite wonderful:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You have heard it said that flowers flourish rightly only in the
+garden of some one who loves them.  I know you would like that to be
+true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your
+flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; if you could bid
+the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind, 'Come
+thou south wind and breathe upon my garden that the spices of it may
+flow forth.'  This you would think a great thing.  And do you not think
+it a greater thing that all this you can do for fairer flowers than
+these&mdash;flowers that have eyes like yours and thoughts like yours, and
+lives like yours; which, once saved, you save forever.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Will you not go down among them&mdash;far among the moorlands and the
+rocks&mdash;far in the darkness of the terrible streets; these feeble
+florets are lying with all their fresh leaves torn and their stems
+broken&mdash;will you never go down to them, not set them in order in their
+little fragrant beds, nor fence them in their shuddering from the
+fierce wind?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There's a lot more of it&mdash;but perhaps you know it.  I think I have
+always done nice little churchly things, and charitable things, but I
+haven't thought as much, perhaps, about my fellow man and woman as I
+might.  We come to things slowly here in Washington.  We are
+conservative, and we have no great industrial problems, no strikes and
+unions and things like that.  Grace says that there is plenty here to
+reform, but the squalor doesn't stick right out before your eyes as it
+does in some of the dreadful tenements in the bigger cities.  So we
+forget&mdash;and I have forgotten.  Until your letter came about that boy in
+the pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Everything that you tell me about him is like a fairy tale.  I can shut
+my eyes and see you two in that circle of young pines.  I can hear your
+voice ringing in the stillness.  You don't tell me of yourself, but I
+know this, that in that boy you've found an audience&mdash;and he is doing
+things for you while you are doing them for him.  You are living once
+more, aren't you?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And the little sad children.  I was so glad to pick out the books with
+the bright pictures.  Weren't the Cinderella illustrations dear?  With
+all the gowns as pink as they could be and the grass as green as green,
+and the sky as blue as blue.  And the yellow frogs in "The frog he
+would a wooing go," and the Walter Crane illustrations for the little
+book of songs.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+You must make them sing "Oh, What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond?"
+and "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's blue, Diddle-Diddle."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Do you know what Aunt Isabelle is making for the little girls?  She is
+so interested.  Such rosy little aprons of pink and white checked
+gingham&mdash;with wide strings to tie behind.  And my contribution is pink
+hair ribbons.  Now won't your garden bloom?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+You must tell me how their little garden plots come on.  Surely that
+was an inspiration.  I told Porter about them the other night, and he
+said, "For Heaven's sake, who ever heard of beginning with gardens in
+the education of ignorant children?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But you and I begin and end with gardens, don't we?  Were the seeds all
+right, and did the bulbs come up?  Aunt Isabelle almost cried over your
+description of the joy on the little faces when the crocuses they had
+planted appeared.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I am eager to hear more of them, and of you.  Oh, yes, and of Cousin
+Patty.  I simply love her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There's so much more to say, but I mustn't.  I must go to bed, and be
+fresh for my work in the morning.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+Ever sincerely,
+<BR><BR>
+MARY BALLARD.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>Among the Pines.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I shall have to begin at the last of your letter, and work toward the
+beginning, for it is of my sad children that I must speak
+first&mdash;although my pen is eager to talk about you, and what your letter
+has meant to me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The sad children are no longer sad.  Against the sand-hills they are
+like rose petals blown by the wind.  Their pink aprons tied in the back
+with great bows, and the pink ribbons have transformed them, so that,
+except for their blank eyes, they might be any other little girls in
+the world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I have taught them several of the pretty songs; you should hear their
+piping voices&mdash;and with their picture books and their gardens, they are
+very busy and happy indeed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Their mother is positively illumined by the change her young folks.
+Never in her life has she seen any country but this one of charred
+pines and sand.  I find her bending over the Cinderella book, liking
+it, and liking the children's little gardens.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We ain't never had no flower garden," she confided to me.  "Jim he
+ain't had time, and I ain't had time, and I ain't never had no luck
+nohow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But the boy still means the most to me.  And you have found the reason.
+It isn't what I am doing for him, it is what he is doing for me.  If
+you could see his eyes!  They are a boy's eyes now, not those of a
+little wild animal.  He is beginning to read the simple books you sent.
+We began with "Mother Goose," and I gave him first "The King of France
+and Forty Thousand Men."  The "Oranges and Lemons" song carried on the
+Dick Whittington atmosphere which he had liked in my poem, with its
+bells of Old Bailey and Shoreditch.  He'll know his London before I get
+through with him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But we've struck even a deeper note.  One Sunday I was moved to take
+out with me your father's old Bible.  There's a rose between its
+leaves, kept for a talisman against the blue devils which sometimes get
+me in their grip.  Well, I took the old Bible out to our little
+amphitheater in the pines, and read, what do you think?  Not the Old
+Testament stories.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I read the Beatitudes, and my boy listened, and when I had finished, he
+asked, "What is blessed?  And who said that?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I told him, and brought back to myself in the telling the vision of
+myself as a boy.  Oh, how far I have drifted from the dreams of that
+boy!  And if it had not been for you I should never have turned back.
+And now this boy in the pines, and the boy who was I are learning
+together, step by step.  I am trying to forget the years between.  I am
+trying to take up life where it was before I was overthrown.  I can't
+quite get hold of things yet as a man, for when I try, I feel a man's
+bitterness.  But the boy believes, and I have shut the man in me away,
+until the boy grows up.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Does this sound fantastic?  To whom else would I dare write such a
+thing, but to you?  But you will understand.  I feel that I need make
+no apology.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Coming now to you and your work.  I can bring no optimism to bear, I
+suppose I should say that it is well.  But there is in me too much of
+the primitive masculine for that.  When a man cares for a woman he
+inevitably wants to shield her.  But what would you?  Shall a man let
+the thing which he would cherish be buffeted by the winds?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I don't like to think of you in an office, with all your pretty woman
+instincts curbed to meet the stern formality of such a life.  I don't
+like to think that any chief, however fatherly, shall dictate to you
+not only letters but rules of conduct.  I don't like to think of you as
+hustled by a crowd at lunch time.  I don't like to think of the great
+stone walls which shut you in.  I don't want your wings clipped for
+such a cage.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And there is this I must say, that all men do not need wives to toast
+their slippers or to serve their meals piping hot, or even to smooth
+the wrinkles, although I confess that there's an appeal in this last.
+Some of us need wives for inspiration, for spiritual and mental uplift,
+for the word of cheer when our hearts are weary&mdash;for the strength which
+believes in our strength&mdash;one doesn't exactly think of Juliet as
+toasting slippers, or of Rosalind, or of Portia, yet such women never
+for one moment failed their lovers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+My Cousin Patty says that work will do you good, and we have great
+arguments.  I have told her of you, not everything, because there are
+some things which are sacred.  But I have told her that life for me,
+since I have known you, has taken on new meanings.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She glories in your independence and wants to know you.  Some day, it
+is written, I am sure, that you two shall meet.  In some things you are
+much alike&mdash;in others utterly different, with the differences made by
+heredity and environment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+My little Cousin Patty is the composite of three generations.  Amid her
+sweets and spices, she is as domestic as her grandmother, but her mind
+sweeps on to the future of women in a way which makes me gasp.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Politics are the breath of her life.  She comes of a long line of
+statesmen, and having no father or brother or husband to uphold the
+family traditions of Democracy, she upholds them herself.  She is
+intensely interested just now in the party nominations.  A split among
+the Republicans gives her hope of the election of the Democratic
+candidate.  She's such a feminine little creature with her soft voice
+and appealing manner, with her big white aprons covering her up, and
+curling wisps of black hair falling over her little ears, that the
+contrasts in her life are almost funny.  In our evenings over the
+little white boxes, we mix questions of State Rights and Free Trade
+with our bridal decorations, and it seems to me that I shall never
+again go to a wedding without a vision of my little Cousin Patty among
+her orange blossoms, laying down the law on current politics.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The negro question in Cousin Patty's mind is that of the Southerner of
+the better class.  It isn't these descendants of old families who hate
+the negro.  Such gentlefolk do not, of course, want equality, but they
+want fair treatment for the weaker race.  Find me a white man who raves
+with rabid prejudice against the black, and I will show you one whose
+grandfather belonged not to the planter but to the cracker class, or a
+Northerner grafting on Southern Stock.  Even in slave times there was
+rancor between the black man and what he called "po' white trash" and
+it still continues.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The picture of the little bronze boy with his crown of roses lies on my
+desk.  I should like much to sit with you on the bench beneath the
+hundred-leaved bush.  What things I should have to say to you!  Things
+which I dare not write, lest you never let me write again.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+You glean the best from everything.  That you should take my little
+talk about gardens, and fit it to what Ruskin has said, is a gracious
+act.  You speak of that night in the garden.  Do you remember that you
+wore a scarlet wrap of thin silk?  I could think of nothing as you came
+toward me, but of some glorious flower of almost supernatural bloom.
+All about you the garden was dying.  But you were Life&mdash;Life as it
+springs up afresh from a world that is dead.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I know how empty the old house seems to you, without Barry, without
+Constance, without the beautiful baby whom I have never seen.  To me it
+can never seem empty with you in it.  Is the saying of such things
+forbidden?  Please believe that I don't mean to force them on you, but
+I write as I think.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+By this post Cousin Patty is sending a box of her famous cake, for you
+and Aunt Isabelle.  There's enough for an army, so I shall think of you
+as dispensing tea in the garden, with your friends about you&mdash;lucky
+friends&mdash;and with the little bronze boy looking on and laughing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To Mary of the Garden, then, this letter goes with all good wishes.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+ROGER POOLE.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap19"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XIX
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes; and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+As has been said, Porter Bigelow was not a snob, and he was a
+gentleman.  But even a gentleman can, when swayed by primal emotions,
+convince himself that high motives rule, even while performing acts of
+doubtful honor.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was thus that Porter proved to himself that his interest in Roger
+Poole's past was purely that of the protector and friend of Mary
+Ballard.  Mary must not throw herself away.  Mary must be guarded
+against the tragedy of marriage with a man who was not worthy.  And who
+could do this better than he?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In pursuance of his policy of protection he took his way one afternoon
+in July to Colin's studio.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm staying in town," Colin told him, "because of Miss Jeliffe.  Her
+father is held by the long Session.  I'm painting another picture of
+her, and fixing up these rooms in the interim&mdash;how do you like them?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In his furnishing, Colin had broken away from conventional tradition.
+Here were no rugs hung from balconies, no rich stuffs and suits of
+armor.  It was simply a cool little place, with a big window
+overlooking one of the parks.  Its walls were tinted gray, and there
+were a few comfortable rattan chairs, with white linen cushions.  A
+portrait of Delilah dominated the room.  He had painted her in the
+costume which she had worn at the garden party&mdash;in all the glory of
+cool greens and faint pink, and heavenly blue.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter surveying the portrait said, slowly, "You said that you had
+painted&mdash;other women?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes&mdash;but none so satisfactory as Miss Jeliffe."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There was the little saint&mdash;in red."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You remember that?  It is just a small canvas."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You said you'd show it to me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin, rummaging in a second room, called back, "I've found it, and
+here's another, of a woman who seemed to fit in with a Botticelli
+scheme.  She was the long lank type."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter was not interested in the Botticelli woman, nor in Colin's
+experiments.  He wanted to see Roger Poole's wife, so he gave scant
+attention to Colin's enthusiastic comments on the first canvas which he
+displayed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She has the long face.  D'you see?  And the thin long body.  But I
+couldn't make her a success.  That's the joy of Delilah Jeliffe.  She
+has the temperament of an actress and simply lives in her part.  But
+this woman couldn't.  And lobster suppers and lovely lank ladies are
+not synonymous&mdash;so I gave her up."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Porter was reaching for the other sketch.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With it in his hand, he surveyed the small creature with the angel
+face.  In her dress of pure clear red, with the touch of gold in the
+halo, and a lyre in her hand, she seemed lighted by divine fire, above
+the earth, appealing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife
+was a failure," he ventured.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin shrugged.  "Who can tell?" he said.  "There were moments when she
+did not seem a saint."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What do you mean?"  Porter's voice was almost irritable.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected&mdash;"now and then a
+glance, a word&mdash;seemed to give her away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You may have misunderstood."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps.  But men who know women rarely misunderstand&mdash;that kind."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Several times.  He promised to be a great man.  It was a pity."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you say she married again."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, and died shortly after."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The subject ended there, and Porter went away with the vision in his
+mind of Roger's wife, and of what the picture of the little saint in
+red would mean to Mary Ballard if she could see it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The thought, having lodged like an evil seed, grew and flourished.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of late he had seen comparatively little of Mary.  He was not sure
+whether she planned deliberately to avoid him, or whether her work
+really absorbed her.  That she wrote to Roger Poole he knew.  She did
+not try to hide the fact, but spoke frankly of Roger's life in the
+pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The flames of his jealous thought burned high and hot.  He refused to
+go with his father and mother to the northern coast, preferring to stay
+and swelter in the heat of Washington where he could be near Mary.  He
+grew restless and pale, unlike himself.  And he found in Leila a
+confidante and friend, for the General, like Mr. Jeliffe, was held in
+town by the late Congress.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Little-Lovely Leila was Little-Lonely Leila now.  Yet after her
+collapse at the boat, she had shown her courage.  She had put away
+childish things and was developing into a steadfast little woman, who
+busied herself with making her father happy.  She watched over him and
+waited on him.  And he who loved her wondered at her unexpected
+strength, not knowing that she was saying to herself, "I am a wife&mdash;not
+a child.  And I mustn't make it hard for father&mdash;I mustn't make it hard
+for anybody.  And when Barry comes back I shall be better fitted to
+share his life if I have learned to be brave."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She wrote to Barry&mdash;such cheerful letters, and one of them sent him to
+Gordon.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It would have been better if I had brought her with me," he said, as
+he read extracts; "she's a little thing, Gordon, but she's a wonder.
+And she's the prop on which I lean."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Presently you will be the prop," Gordon responded, "and that's what a
+husband should be, Barry, as you'll find out when you're married."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When!&mdash;if Gordon had only known how Barry dreamed of Leila&mdash;in her
+yellow gown, trudging by his side toward the church on the
+hill&mdash;dancing in the moonlight, a primrose swaying on its stem.  How
+unquestioning had been her faith in him!  And he must prove himself
+worthy of that faith.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And he did prove it by a steadiness which astonished Gordon, and by an
+industry which was almost unnatural, and he wrote to Leila, "I shall
+show them, dear heart, and then they'll let me have you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was on the night after Leila received this letter that Porter came
+to take her for a ride.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Ask Mary to go with us," he said; "she won't go with me alone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila's glance was sympathetic.  "Did she say she wouldn't?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I asked her.  And she said she was&mdash;tired.  As if a ride wouldn't rest
+her," hotly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It would.  You let me try her, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila's voice at the telephone was coaxing.  "I want to go, Mary, dear,
+and Dad is busy at the Capitol, and&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I said I wouldn't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Porter won't care, just so he gets you.  He's at my elbow now,
+listening.  And he says you are to ask Aunt Isabelle, and sit with her
+on the back seat if you want to be fussy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila," Porter was protesting, "I didn't say anything of the kind."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She went on regardless, "Well, if he didn't say it he meant it.  And we
+want you, both of us, awfully."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila hanging up the receiver shook her head at Porter.  "You don't
+know how to manage Mary.  If you'd stay away from her for weeks&mdash;and
+not try to see her&mdash;she'd begin to wonder where you were."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No she wouldn't."  Porter's tone was weighted with woe.  "She'd simply
+be glad, and she'd sit in her Tower Rooms and write letters to Roger
+Poole, and forget that I was on the earth."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was out now&mdash;all his flaming jealousy.  Leila stared at him.  "Oh,
+Porter," she asked, breathlessly, "do you really think that she cares
+for Roger?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Has she told you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not&mdash;exactly.  But she hasn't denied it.  And he sha'n't have her.
+She belongs to me, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila sighed.  "Oh, why should love affairs always go wrong?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mine shall go right," Porter assured her grimly.  "I'm not in this
+fight to give up, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When they took Mary in and Aunt Isabelle, Mary insisted that Leila
+should keep her seat beside Porter.  "I'm dead tired," she said, "and I
+don't want to talk."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Porter, aiming strategically for Colin Quale's studio, took
+them everywhere else but in the direction of his objective point.  But
+at last, after a long ride, they crossed the park which was faced by
+Colin's rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Have you seen Delilah's portrait?" Porter asked, casually.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They had not, and he knew it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If Colin's in, why not stop?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They agreed and found Delilah there, and her father.  The night was
+very hot, the room was faintly illumined by a hanging silver lamp in an
+alcove.  From among the shadows, Delilah rose.  "Colin is telephoning
+to the club for lemonades and things," she said; "he'll be back in a
+minute."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"We came to see your picture," Mary informed her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He is painting me again," Delilah said, "in the moonlight, like this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She seated herself in the wide window, so that back of her was the
+silver haze of the glorious night Her dress of thin fine white was
+unrelieved.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin, coming in, set down his tray hastily and hastened to change the
+pose of her head.  "It will be hard to get just the effect I want," he
+told them.  "It must not be hard black and white, but luminous."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want them to see the other picture," Porter said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin switched on the lights.  "I'll never do better than this," he
+said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you like it, Mary?" Delilah asked.  "It is the garden party dress."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I love it," Mary said.  "It isn't just the dress, Delilah.  It's you.
+It's so joyous&mdash;as if you were expecting much of life."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am," Delilah said.  "I'm expecting everything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you'll get it," Colin stated.  "You won't wait for any one to hand
+it to you; you'll simply reach out and take it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter's eyes were searching.   "Look here, Quale," he said, at last,
+"do you mind letting us see the others?&mdash;that Botticelli woman and the
+Fra Angelico&mdash;they show your versatility."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin hesitated.  "They are crude beside this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Porter insisted.  "They're charming.  Trot them out, Quale."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So out they came&mdash;-the picture of the lank lady with the long face, and
+the picture of the little saint in red.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was to the girl in red that they gave the most attention.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How lovely she is," Mary said, "and how sweet."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Delilah, observing closely, did not agree with her.  "I'm not sure.
+Some women look like that who are little fiends.  You haven't shown me
+this before, Colin.  Who was she?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin evaded.  "Some one I knew a long time ago."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter was shaken inwardly by the thought that the little blond artist
+was proving himself a gentleman.  He would not proclaim to the world
+what he had told Porter in confidence.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter's instincts, however, were purely primitive.  He wanted to shout
+to the housetops, "That's the picture of Roger Poole's wife.  Look at
+her and see how sweet she is.  And then decide if she made her own
+unhappiness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But he did not shout.  He kept silent and watched Mary.  She was still
+studying the picture attentively.  "I don't see how you can say that
+she could be anything but sweet, Delilah.  I think it is the face of a
+truthful child."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter's heart leaped.  The time would come when he would tell her that
+the picture of the little trustful child was the picture of Roger
+Poole's wife.  And then&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin had turned off the lights again.  They sat now among the shadows
+and drank cool things and ate the marvelous little cakes which were a
+specialty of the pastry cook around the corner.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In a week we'll all be away from here," Delilah said.  "I wonder why
+we are so foolish.  If it weren't for the fact that we've got the
+habit, we'd be just as comfortable at home."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I shall be at home," Mary said.  "I'm not entitled yet to a vacation."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't you hate it?" Delilah demanded frankly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary hesitated.  "No, I don't.  I can't say that I really like it&mdash;but
+it gave me quite a wonderful feeling to open my first pay envelope."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Women have gone mad," Porter said.  "They are deliberately turning
+away from womanly things to make machines of themselves."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, taking up the cudgels for Mary, demanded, "Is Mary turning her
+back on womanly things any more than I?  I am making a business of
+capturing society&mdash;Mary is simply holding down her job until Romance
+butts into her life."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin stopped her.  "I wish you'd put your twentieth century mind on
+your mid-Victorian clothes," he said, "and live up to them&mdash;in your
+language."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah laughed.  "Well, I told the truth if I didn't do it elegantly.
+We are both working for things which we want.  Mary wants Romance and I
+want social recognition."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila sighed.  "It isn't always what we want that we get, is it?" she
+asked, and Porter answered with decision, "It is not.  Life throws us
+usually brickbats instead of bouquets."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin did not agree.  "Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.
+It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe.  And I consider that a
+pretty big slice of good fortune."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're a nice boy, Colin," Delilah told him, "and I like you&mdash;and I
+like your philosophy.  I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The others were silent.  Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at
+that moment the things that they wanted.  Porter's demands on destiny
+were definite.  He wanted Mary.  Leila wanted Barry.  Mary did not know
+what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back
+through the park to the old house on the hill.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But it is so late, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I've been here lots of times as late as this.  I won't be sent home,
+Mary, not to-night."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs.  Mary sat on
+the porch with Porter.  Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.
+For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary, there's something I want to tell you.  You may think that I'm
+interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it.  I can't see you
+doing things which will make you unhappy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm not unhappy.  What do you mean, Porter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You will be&mdash;if you go on as you are going.  Mary&mdash;I took you to
+Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the
+little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You know what you said about her&mdash;that she had such a trustful,
+childish face?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That was the picture of Roger Poole's wife, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At last she asked, "How do you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Quale told me.  I fancy he hadn't heard that Poole had lived here, and
+that we knew him.  So he let the name drop carelessly."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He turned on her flaming.  "I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.
+But you're unjust.  You think I've been meddling.  But I haven't.  It
+is only this.  If Poole could break the heart of one woman, he can
+break the heart of another&mdash;and he sha'n't break yours."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Who told you that he broke her heart?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You've seen the picture.  Could a woman with a face like that do
+anything bad enough to wreck a man's life?  I can't believe it, Mary.
+There are always two sides of a question."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She did not answer at once.  Then she said, "How did you know
+about&mdash;Roger?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Delilah told me&mdash;he couldn't expect to keep it secret."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He did not expect it; and he had much to bear."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then he has told you, and has pleaded with eloquence?  But that
+child's face in the picture pleads with me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It did plead.  Remembering it, Mary was assailed by her first doubts.
+It was such a child's face, with saint's eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter's voice was proceeding.  "A man can always make out a case for
+himself.  And you have only his word for what he did.  Oh, I suppose
+you'll think I'm all sorts of a cad to talk this way.  But I can't see
+you drifting, drifting toward a danger which may wreck your life."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why should it wreck my life?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because Poole, whatever the merits of the case&mdash;doesn't seem to me
+strong enough to shape his destiny and yours.  Was it strong for him to
+let go as he did, just because that woman failed him?  Was it strong
+for him to hide himself here&mdash;like&mdash;like a criminal?  A strong man
+would have faced the world.  He would have tried to rise out of his
+wreck.  His actions all through spell weakness.  I could bear your not
+marrying me, Mary.  But I can't bear to see you marry a man who isn't
+worthy of you.  To see you unhappy would be torture for me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In his earnestness he had struck a genuine note, and she recognized it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know," she said, unsteadily.  "I believe that you think you are
+fighting my battle, instead of your own.  But I don't think Roger Poole
+would&mdash;lie."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not consciously.  But he'd create the wrong impression&mdash;we can never
+see our own faults&mdash;and he would blame her, of course.  But the man who
+has made one woman unhappy would make another unhappy, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary was shaken.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Please don't put it so&mdash;inevitably.  Roger hasn't any claim on me
+whatever."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Hasn't he?  Oh, Mary, hasn't he?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was hope in his voice, and she shrank from it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," she said, gently, "he is just&mdash;my friend.  As yet I can't believe
+evil of him.  But I don't love him.  I don't love anybody&mdash;I don't want
+any man in my life."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She thought that she meant it.  She thought it, even while her heart
+was crying out in defense of the man he had maligned.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How can one know the truth of such a thing?" she went on, unsteadily.
+"One can only believe in one's friends."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," eagerly, "you've known Poole only for a few months.  You've
+known me always.  I can give you a devotion equal to anybody's.  Why
+not drop all this contrariness&mdash;and come to me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?" she asked herself.  Roger Poole was obscure, and destined to
+be obscure.  More than that, there would always be people like Porter
+who would question his past.  "It is the whispers that kill," Roger had
+said.  And people would always whisper.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She rose and walked to the end of the porch.  Porter followed her, and
+they stood looking down into the garden.  It was in a riot of summer
+bloom&mdash;and the fragrance rushed up to them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The garden!  And herself a flower!  It was such things that Roger Poole
+could say, and which Porter could never say.  And he could not say them
+because he could not think them.  The things that Porter thought were
+commonplace, the things which Roger thought were wonderful.  If she
+married Porter Bigelow, she would walk always with her feet firmly on
+the ground.  If she married Roger Poole they would fly in the upper air
+together.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," Porter was insisting, "dear girl."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She held up her hand.  "I won't listen," she said, almost passionately;
+"don't imagine things about me, Porter.  I have my work&mdash;and my
+freedom&mdash;I won't give them up for anybody."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If she said the words with something less than her former confidence he
+was not aware of it.  How could he know that she was making a last
+desperate stand?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When at last she sent him away, he went with an air of depression which
+touched her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I've risked being thought a cad," he said, "but I had to do it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know.  I don't blame you, dear boy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She gave him her hand upon it, and he went away, and she was left alone
+in the moonlight.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And when the last echo of his purring car had died away into silence
+she went down and sat in the garden on the bench beside the
+hundred-leaved bush.  Aunt Isabelle's light was still burning, and
+presently she would go up and say "Good-night," but for the moment she
+must be alone.  Alone to face the doubts which were facing her.
+Suppose, oh, suppose, that the things which Roger had told her about
+his marriage had been distorted to make his story sound plausible?
+Suppose the little wife had suffered, had been driven from him by
+coldness, by cruelty?  One never knew the real inner histories of such
+domestic tragedies.  There was Leila, for example, who knew nothing of
+Barry's faults, and Barry had not told her.  Might not other men have
+faults which they dared not tell?  The world was full of just such
+tragedies.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When at last Mary reached the Tower Rooms, she undressed in the dark.
+She said her prayers in the dark, out loud, as had been her childish
+habit.  And this was what she said: "Oh, Lord, I want to believe in
+Roger.  Let me believe&mdash;don't let me doubt&mdash;let me believe."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When at last she slept, it was to dream and wake and to dream again.
+And waking or dreaming, out of the shadows came ghostly creatures, who
+whispered, "His little wife was a saint&mdash;how could she make him
+unhappy?"  And again, "He may have been cruel, how do you know that he
+was not cruel?"  And again, "If you were his wife, you would be
+thinking always of that other wife&mdash;thinking&mdash;thinking&mdash;thinking."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap20"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XX
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+The summer slipped by, monotonously hot, languidly humid.  And it was
+on these hot and humid days that Mary felt the grind of her new
+occupation.  She grew to dread her entrance into the square close
+office room, with its gaunt desks and its unchanging occupants.  She
+waxed restless through the hours of confinement, escaping thankfully at
+the end of a long day.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She longed for a whiff of the sea, for the deeps of some forest, for
+the fields of green which must be somewhere beyond the blue-gray haze
+which had settled over the shimmering city.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She began to show the effects of her unaccustomed drudgery.  She grew
+pale and thin.  Aunt Isabelle was worried.  The two women sat much by
+the fountain.  Mary had begged Aunt Isabelle to go away to some cooler
+spot.  But the gentle lady had refused.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This is home to me, my dear," she had said, "and I don't mind the
+heat.  And there's no happiness for me in big hotels."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There'd be happiness for me anywhere that I could get a breath of
+coolness," Mary said, restlessly.  "I can hardly wait for the fall
+days."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet when the cooler days came, there was the dreariness of rain and of
+sighing winds.  And now it was November, and Roger Poole had been away
+a year.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The garden was dead, and Mary was glad.  Dead gardens seemed to fit
+into her mood better than those which bloomed.  Resolutely she set
+herself to be cheerful; conscientiously, she told herself that she must
+live up to the theories which she had professed; sternly, she called
+herself to account that she did not exult in the freedom which she had
+craved.  Constantly her mind warred with her heart, and her heart won;
+and she faced the truth that all seasons would be dreary without Roger
+Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her letters to him of late had lacked the spontaneity which had at
+first characterized them.  She knew it, and tried to regain her old
+sense of ease and intimacy.  But the doubts which Porter had planted
+had borne fruit.  Always between her and Roger floated the vision of
+the little saint in red.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was inevitable that Roger's letters should change.  He ceased to
+show her the side which for a time he had so surprisingly revealed.
+Their correspondence became perfunctory&mdash;intermittent.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is my own fault," Mary told herself, yet the knowledge did not make
+things easier.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now began the winter of her discontent.  If any one had told her in
+her days of buoyant self-confidence that she would ever go to bed weary
+and wake up hopeless, she would have scorned the idea; yet the fact
+remained that the fruit of her independence was Dead Sea apples.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a letter from Barry which again brought her head up, and made
+her life march once more to a martial tune.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I have found the work for which I am fitted," he wrote; "you don't
+know how good it seems.  For so many years I went to my desk like a boy
+driven to school.  But now&mdash;why, I work after hours for the sheer love
+of it&mdash;and because it seems to bring me nearer to Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This from Barry, the dawdler!  And she who had preached was whimpering
+about heat and cold, about long hours and hard work&mdash;as if these things
+matter!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Why, life was a Great Adventure, and she had forgotten!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now she began to look about her&mdash;to find, if she could, some ray to
+illumine her workaday world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She found it in the friendliness and companionship of her office
+comrades&mdash;good comrades they were&mdash;fighting the battle of drudgery
+shoulder to shoulder, sharing the fortunes of the road, needing, some
+of them, the uplift of her courage, giving some of them more than they
+asked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As Mary grew into their lives, she grew away somewhat from her old
+crowd.  And if, at times, her gallant fight seemed futile&mdash;if at times
+she could not still the cry of her heart, it was because she was a
+woman, made to be loved, fitted for finer things and truer things than
+writing cabalistic signs on a tablet and transcribing them, later, on
+the typewriter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila had refused to be dropped from Mary's life.  She came, whenever
+she could, to walk a part of the way home with her friend, and the two
+girls would board a car and ride to the edge of the town, preferring to
+tramp along the edges of the Soldiers' Home or through the Park to the
+more formal promenade through the city streets.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was during these little adventures that Mary became conscious of
+certain reserves in the younger girl.  She was closely confidential,
+yet the open frankness of the old days was gone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Once Mary spoke of it.  "You've grown up, all in a minute, Leila," she
+said.  "You're such a quiet little mouse."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila sighed.  "There's so much to think about."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Watching her, Mary decided.  "It is harder for her than for Barry.  He
+has his work.  But she just waits and longs for him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In waiting and longing, Little-Lovely Leila grew more mouse-like than
+ever.  And at last Mary spoke to the General.  "She needs a change."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He nodded.  "I know it.  I am thinking of taking her over in the
+spring."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How lovely.  Have you told her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No&mdash;I thought it would be a grand surprise."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Tell her now, dear General.  She needs to look forward."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So the General, who had been kept in the house nearly all winter by his
+rheumatism, spoke of certain baths in Germany.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I thought I'd go over and try them," he informed his small daughter,
+on the day after his talk with Mary, "and you could stop and call on
+Barry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry!"  She made a little rush toward him.  "Dad, <I>Dad</I>, do you mean
+it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She tucked her head into his shoulder and cried for happiness.  "Dad,
+I've missed him so."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With this hope held out to her, Little-Lovely Leila grew radiant.  Once
+more her feet danced along the halls, and the music of her voice
+trilled bird-like in the big rooms.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, discussing it with her artist, said: "Leila makes me believe
+in Romance with a big R.  But I couldn't love like that."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin smiled.  "You'd love like a lioness.  I've subdued you outwardly,
+but within you are still primitive."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I wonder&mdash;&mdash;" Delilah mused.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The man for you," Colin turned to her suddenly, "is Porter Bigelow.
+Of course I'm taking it from the artist's point of view.  You're made
+for each other&mdash;a pair of young gods&mdash;his red head just topping your
+black one&mdash;It was that way at the garden party; any one could see it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah laughed.  "His eyes aren't for me.  With him it is Mary
+Ballard.  If I were in love with him, I should hate Mary.  But I don't;
+I love her.  And she's in love with Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin looked up from the samples from which he and Delilah were
+choosing her spring wardrobe.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Poole?  I knew his wife," he said abruptly; "it was her picture that I
+showed you the other night&mdash;the little saint in the Fra Angelico
+pose&mdash;it didn't come to me until afterward that he might be the same
+Poole of whom I had heard you speak."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah swept across the room, and turned the canvas outward.  "Roger
+Poole's wife," she said, "of all things!"  Then she stood staring
+silently.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You didn't tell us who she was."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," he was weighing mentally Porter's attitude in the matter, "no one
+knew but Bigelow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And he showed this to Mary?"  They looked at each other, and laughed.
+"Perhaps all's fair in love," Delilah murmured, at last, "but I
+wouldn't have believed it of him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she turned the picture toward the wall, Delilah decided, "Mary
+Ballard is worth a hundred of such women as this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A woman like you is worth a hundred of them," Colin stated
+deliberately.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah flushed faintly.  Colin Quale was giving to her something which
+no other man had given.  And she liked it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you know what you are doing to me?" she said, as she sat down by
+the window.  "You are making me think that I am like the pictures you
+paint of me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You are," was the quiet response; "it's just a matter of getting
+beneath the surface."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a pause during which his fingers and eyes were busy with the
+shining samples&mdash;then Delilah said: "If Leila and her father go to
+Germany in May, I'm going to get Dad to go too.  I don't suppose you'd
+care to join us?  You'll want to get back to that girl in Amesbury or
+Newburyport, or whatever it is."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What girl?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The one you are going to marry."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There is no girl," said Colin quietly, "in Amesbury or Newburyport;
+there never has been and there never will be."  Coming close, he held
+against her cheek a sample of soft pale yellow.  "Leila Dick wears that
+a lot, but it's not for you."  He stood back and gazed at her
+meditatively.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Colin," she protested, "when you look at me that way, I feel like a
+wooden model."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled, "That's what you have come to mean to me," he said; "I don't
+want to think of you as a woman."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?" asked daring Delilah.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because it is, to say the least, disturbing."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He occupied himself with his samples, shaking his head over them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"None of these will do for the Secretary's dinner.  You must have lace
+with many flounces caught up in the new fashion.  And I shall want your
+hair different.  Take it down."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was used to him now, and presently it fell about her in all its
+shining sable beauty; and as he separated the strands, it was like a
+thing alive under his hands.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He crowned her head with the braids in a sort of old-fashioned coronet.
+And so arranged, the old fashion became a new fashion, and Delilah was
+like a queen.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You see&mdash;with the lace and your pearl ornaments.  There is nothing
+startling; but no one will be like you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And there was no one like her.  And because of the dress, which Colin
+had planned, and because of the way which he had taught her to do her
+hair, Delilah annexed to her train of admirers on the night of the
+Secretary's dinner a distinguished titled gentleman, who was looking
+for a wife to grace his ancestral halls&mdash;and who was impressed mightily
+by the fact that Delilah looked the part to perfection.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He proposed to her in three weeks, and was so sure of his ability to
+get what he wanted that he was stunned by her answer:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps I'll make up my mind to it.  I'll give you your answer when I
+come over in the spring."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I want my answer now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm sorry.  But I can't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When she told Colin of her abrupt dismissal of the discomfited
+gentleman, she asked, almost plaintively, "Why couldn't I say 'yes' at
+once?  It is the thing I've always wanted."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Have you really wanted it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not of course.  You want other things more."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What for example?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think you know."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She did know, and she drew a quick breath.  Then laughed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're trying to teach me to understand my&mdash;emotions, Colin, as you
+have taught me to understand my clothes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're an apt pupil."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Tea came in, just then, and she poured for him, telling his fortune
+afterward in his teacup.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are you superstitious?" she asked him, having worked out a future of
+conventional happiness and success.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not enough to believe what you have told me."  He was flickering his
+pale lashes and smiling.  "Life shall bring me what I want because I
+shall make it come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, you think that?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  All things are possible to those of us who believe they are
+possible."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps to a man.  But&mdash;to a woman.  There's Leila, for example.  I'm
+afraid&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mustn't be.  Life will come right for her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How do you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It comes right for all of us, in one way or another.  You'll find it
+works out.  You're afraid for your little friend because of
+Ballard&mdash;he's pretty gay, eh?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  More, I think, than she understands.  But everybody else knows
+that they sent him away for that.  And I can't see any way out.  If he
+marries her he'll break her heart; if he doesn't marry her he'll break
+it&mdash;and there you have it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You must not put these 'ifs' in their way.  There'll be some way out."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She rose and went to a table to a little cabinet which she unlocked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You wouldn't let me have my crystal ball in evidence," she said,
+"because it doesn't fit in with the rest of my new furnishings&mdash;but it
+tells things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What things?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'll show you."  She set it on the table between them.  "Put your hand
+on each side of it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He grasped it with his flexible fingers.  "Don't invent&mdash;&mdash;" he warned.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She began to speak slowly, and she was still at it when Porter's big
+car drove up to the door, and he came in with Mary and Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I picked up these two on their way home," Porter explained; "it is
+raining pitchforks, and I'm in my open car.  And so, kind lady, dear
+lady, will you give us tea?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin and Delilah, each a little pale, breathing quickly, rose to greet
+their guests.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She's been telling my fortune," Colin informed them, while Delilah
+gave orders for more hot water and cups.  "It's a queer business."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter scoffed.  "A fake, if there ever was one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin mused.  "Perhaps.  But she has the air of a seeress when she says
+it all&mdash;and she has me slated for a&mdash;masterpiece&mdash;and marriage."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila, standing by the table, touched the crystal globe with doubtful
+fingers.  "Do you really see things, Delilah?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Sit down, and I'll prove it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila shrank.  "Oh, no."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Porter insisted.  "Be a sport, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she settled herself in the chair which Colin had occupied, her curly
+locks half hiding her expectant eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Delilah looked, bending over the ball.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There was a long silence.  Then Delilah seemed to shake herself, as one
+shakes off a trance.  She pushed the ball away from her with a sudden
+gesture.  "There's nothing," she said, in a stifled voice; "there's
+really nothing to tell, Leila."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I knew that you'd back out with all of us here to listen," Porter
+triumphed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Colin saw more than that.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I think we want our tea," he said, "while it is hot," and he handed
+Delilah the cups, and busied himself to help her with the sugar and
+lemon, and to pass the little cakes, and all the time he talked in his
+pleasant half-cynical, half-earnest fashion, until their minds were
+carried on to other things.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When at last they had gone, he came back to her quickly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What was it?" he asked.  "What did you see in the ball?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shivered.  "It was Barry.  Oh, Colin, I don't really believe in
+it&mdash;perhaps it was just my imagination because I am worried about
+Leila, but I saw Barry looking at me with such a white strange face out
+of the dark."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap21"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXI
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It was in February that Roger wrote somewhat formally to ask if his
+Cousin Patty might have a room in Mary's big house during the coming
+inauguration.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She is supremely happy over the Democratic victory, but in spite of
+her advanced ideas, she is a timid little thing, and she has no
+knowledge of big cities.  I feel that many difficulties would be
+avoided if you could take her in.  I want her, too, to know you.  I had
+thought at first that I might come with her.  But I think not.  I am
+needed here."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not say why he was needed.  He said little of himself and of his
+work.  And Mary wondered.  Had his enthusiasm waned?  Was he, after
+all, swayed by impulse, easily discouraged?  Was Porter right, and was
+Roger's failure in life due not to outside forces, but to weakness
+within himself?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She wrote him that she should be glad to have Cousin Patty, and it was
+on the first of March that Cousin Patty came.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Once in four years the capital city takes on a supreme holiday aspect.
+In other years there may be parades, in other years there may be
+pageants&mdash;it is an every-day affair, indeed, to hear up and down the
+Avenue the beat of music, and the tramp of many feet.  There are
+funerals of great men, with gun carriages draped with the flag, and
+with the Marine Band playing the "Dead March."  There are gay
+cavalcades rushing in from Fort Myer, to escort some celebrity; there
+are pathetic files of black folk, gorgeous in the insignia of some
+society which gives to its dead members the tribute of a
+conspicuousness which they have never known in life.  There are circus
+parades, and suffrage parades, minstrel parades and parades of the boys
+from the high schools&mdash;all the display of military and motley by which
+men advertise their importance and their wares.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But the Inauguration is the one great and grand effort.  All work stops
+for it; all traffic stops for it; all of the policemen in the town
+patrol it; half the detectives in the country are imported to protect
+it.  All of fashion views it from the stands up-town; all of the
+underworld gazes at it from the south side of the street down-town.
+Packed trains bring the people.  And the people are crowded into hotels
+and boarding-houses, and into houses where thresholds are never crossed
+at any other time by paying guests.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To the inauguration of 1913 was added another element of interest&mdash;the
+parade of the women, on the day preceding the changing of presidents.
+Hence the red and white and blue of former decorations were enlivened
+by the yellow and white and purple of the Suffrage colors.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty wore a little knot of yellow ribbon when Porter met her at
+the station.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter was not inclined to welcome any cousin of Roger Poole's with
+open arms.  But he knew his duty to Mary's guests.  He had offered his
+car, and had insisted that Mary should make use of it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"For Heaven's sake, don't make me utterly miserable by refusing to let
+me do anything for you, Mary," he had said, when she had protested.
+"It is the only pleasure I have."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty, in spite of Porter's preconceived prejudices, made at
+once a place for herself.  She gave him her little bag, and with a sigh
+of such infinite relief, her eyes like a confiding child's, that he
+laughed and bent down to her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary Ballard is in my car outside.  I didn't want her to get into this
+crowd."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty shuddered.  "Crowd!  I've never seen anything like&mdash;the
+people.  I didn't know there were so many in the world.  You see, I've
+never been far away from home.  And they kept pouring in from all the
+stations, and when I reached here and stood on the steps of the
+Pullman, and saw the masses streaming in ail directions, I felt
+faint&mdash;but the conductor pointed out the way to go, and then I saw
+your&mdash;lovely head."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She said it so sincerely that Porter laughed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Miss Carew," he said, "I believe you mean it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mean what?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That it's a lovely head."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is."  The dark eyes were shining.  "You were so tall that I could
+see you above the people, and Roger had described how you would look.
+Mary Ballard had said you would surely be here to meet me, and now&mdash;oh,
+I'm really in Washington!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If she had said, "I'm really in Paradise," it could not have expressed
+more supreme bliss.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I never expected to be here," Cousin Patty went on to explain, as they
+crossed the concourse, and Porter guided her through the crowd.  "I
+never expected it.  And now Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard has promised
+to show me everything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard, indeed!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Miss Ballard," he said, stiffly, "is taking a week off from her work.
+And she is going to devote it to sightseeing with you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, Roger told me.  Is that Mary smiling from that big car?  Oh, Mary
+Ballard, I knew you'd be just&mdash;like this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Well, nobody could resist Cousin Patty.  There was that in her charming
+voice, in her vivid personality which set her apart from other
+middle-aged and well-bred women of her type.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter made a wide sweep to take in the Capitol and the Library; then
+he flew up the Avenue, disfigured now by the stands from which people
+were to view the parade.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Cousin Patty's eyes went beyond the stand to the tall straight
+shaft of the Monument in the distance, and when they passed the White
+House, she simply settled back in her seat and sighed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To think that, after all these years, there'll be a gentleman and a
+scholar to live there."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There have been other scholars&mdash;and gentlemen," Mary reminded her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course, my dear.  But this is different.  You see, in our section
+of the country a Republican is just a&mdash;Republican.  And a Democrat is
+a&mdash;gentleman."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's eyes were dancing.  "Cousin Patty," she said, "may I call you
+Cousin Patty?  What will you do when women vote?  Will the women who
+are Republicans be ladies?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, now you are laughing at me," Cousin Patty said, helplessly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary gave Cousin Patty the suite next to Aunt Isabelle's, and the two
+gentle ladies smiled and kissed in the fashion of their time, and
+became friends at once.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When Cousin Patty had unpacked her bag, and had put all of her nice
+little belongings away, she tripped across the threshold of the door
+between the two rooms, to talk to Aunt Isabelle.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary said that we should be going to the theater to-night with Mr.
+Bigelow.  You must tell me what to wear, please.  You see I've been out
+of the world so long."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you are more of it than I," Aunt Isabelle reminded her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty, in her pretty wrapper, sat down in a rocking-chair
+comfortably to discuss it.  "What do you mean?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary has been telling me how far ahead of me your thoughts have flown.
+You're taking up all the new questions, and you're a successful woman
+of business.  I have envied you ever since I heard about the wedding
+cake."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It's a good business," said Cousin Patty, "and I can do it at home.  I
+couldn't have gone out in the world to make my fight for a living.  I
+can defy men in theory; but I'm really Southern and feminine&mdash;if you
+know what that means," she laughed happily.  "Of course I never let
+them know it, not even Roger."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Mary came in, lovely in her white dinner gown.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh," she accused them, "you aren't ready."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty rose.  "I wanted to know what to wear, and we've talked an
+hour, and haven't said a word about it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't bother," Mary said; "there'll be just four of us."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But I want to bother.  Roger helped me to plan my things.  He
+remembered every single dress you wore while he was here."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Really?"  The look which Roger had loved was creeping into Mary's
+clear eyes.  "Really, Cousin Patty?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  He drew a sketch of your velvet wrap with the fur, and I made
+mine like it, only I put a frill in place of the fur."  She trotted
+into her room and brought it back for Mary's inspection.  "Is it all
+right?" she asked, anxiously, as she slipped it on, and craned her neck
+in front of Aunt Isabelle's long mirror to see the sweep of the folds.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is perfect; and to think he should remember."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty gave her a swift glance.  "That isn't all he has
+remembered," she said, succinctly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It developed when they went down for dinner that Roger had ordered a
+box of flowers for them&mdash;purple violets for Aunt Isabelle and Cousin
+Patty, white violets for Mary.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How lovely," Mary said, bending over the box of sweetness.  "I am
+perfectly sure no one ever sent me white violets before."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There were other flowers&mdash;orchids from Porter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And now&mdash;which will you wear?" demanded sprightly Cousin Patty, an
+undercurrent of anxiety in her tone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary wore the violets, and Porter gloomed all through the play.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"So my orchids weren't good enough," he said, as she sat beside him on
+their way to the hotel where they were to have supper.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"They were lovely, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you liked the violets better?  Who sent them, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't ask in that tone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You don't want to tell me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It isn't that&mdash;it's your manner."  She broke off to say pleadingly,
+"Don't let us quarrel over it.  Let me forget for to-night that there's
+any discord in the world&mdash;any work&mdash;any worry.  Let me be Contrary
+Mary&mdash;happy, care-free, until it all begins over again in the morning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Very softly she said it, and there were tears in her voice.  He glanced
+down at her in surprise.  "Is that the way life looks to you&mdash;you poor
+little thing?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, and when you are cross, you make it harder."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus, woman-like, she put him in the wrong, and the question of violets
+vs. orchids was shelved.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Presently, in the great red dining-room, Porter was ordering things for
+Cousin Patty's delectation of which she had never heard.  Her enjoyment
+of the novelty of it all was refreshing.  She tasted and ate and looked
+about her as frankly as a happy child, yet never, with it all, lost her
+little air of serene dignity, which set her apart from the flaming,
+flaring type of femininity which abounds in such places.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The great spectacle of the crowded rooms made a deep impression on
+Cousin Patty.  To her this was no gathering of people who were eating
+too much and drinking too much, and who were taking from the night the
+hours which should have been given to sleep.  To her it
+was&mdash;fairy-land; all of the women were lovely, all of the men
+celebrities&mdash;and the gold of the lights, the pink of the azaleas which
+were everywhere in pots, the murmur of voices, the sweet insistence of
+the music in the balcony, the trail of laughter over it all&mdash;these were
+magical things, which might disappear at any moment, and leave her
+among her boxes of wedding cake, after the clock struck twelve.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it did not disappear, and she went home happy and too tired to talk.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At breakfast the next morning, Mary announced their programme for the
+day.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Delilah has telephoned that she wants us to have lunch with her at the
+Capitol.  Her father is in Congress, Cousin Patty, and they will show
+us everything worth seeing.  Then we'll go for a ride and have tea
+somewhere, and the General and Leila have asked us for dinner.  Shall
+you be too tired?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Tired?"  Cousin Patty's laugh trilled like the song of a bird.  "I
+feel as if I were on wings."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty trod the steps of the historic Capitol with awe.  To her
+these halls of legislation were sacred to the memory of Henry Clay and
+of Daniel Webster.  Every congressman was a Personage&mdash;and many a
+simple man, torn between his desire to serve his constituents, and his
+need to placate the big interests of his state, would have been touched
+by the faith of this little Southern lady in his integrity.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A man couldn't walk through here, with the statues of great men
+confronting him, and the pictures of other great men looking down on
+him, and the shades of those who have gone before him haunting the
+shadows and whispering from the galleries, without feeling that he was
+uplifted by their influence," she whispered to Mary, as from the
+Member's Gallery she gazed down at the languid gentlemen who lounged in
+their seats and listened with blank faces to one of their number who
+was speaking against time.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin Quale, who lunched with them, was delighted with her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She is an example of what I've been trying to show you," he said to
+Delilah.  "She is so well bred that she absolutely lacks
+self-consciousness, and she is so clear-minded that you can't muddy her
+thoughts with scandals of this naughty world.  She is a type worthy of
+your study."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Colin," Delilah questioned, with a funny little smile, "is this a
+'back to grandma' movement that you are planning for me?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The pale little man flickered his blond lashes, but his face was grave.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No," he said, "but I want you to be abreast of the times.  There's
+going to be a reaction from this reign of the bizarre.  We've gone long
+enough to harems and odalisques for our styles and our manners and
+presently we are going to see the blossoming of old-fashioned beauty."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And do you think the old manners and morals will come?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shrugged.  "Who knows?  We can only hope."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was to Colin that Cousin Patty spoke confidingly of her admiration
+of Delilah.  "She's beautiful," she said.  "Mary says that you plan her
+dresses.  I never thought that a man could do such things until Roger
+took such an interest."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Men of to-day take an interest," Colin said.  "Woman's dress is one
+branch of art.  It is worthy of a man's best powers because it adds to
+the beauty of the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That's the funny part of it," Cousin Patty ventured; "women are taking
+up men's work, and men are taking up women's&mdash;it is all topsy turvy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The little artist pondered.  "Perhaps in the end they'll understand
+each other better."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think they will?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  The woman who does a man's work learns to know what fighting
+means.  The man who makes a study of feminine things begins to see back
+of what has seemed mere frivolity and love of admiration a desire for
+harmony and beauty, and self-expression.  Some day women will come back
+to simplicity and to the home, because they will have learned things
+from men and will have taught things to men, and by mutual
+understanding each will choose the best."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty was inspired by the thought.  "I never heard any one put
+it that way before."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps not&mdash;but I have seen much of the world&mdash;and of men&mdash;and of
+women."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yet all women are not alike."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"No."  His eyes swept the table.  "You three&mdash;Miss Ballard, Miss
+Jeliffe&mdash;how far apart&mdash;yet you're all women&mdash;all, I may say, awakened
+women&mdash;refusing to follow the straight and narrow path of the old
+ideal.  Isn't it so?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  I'm in business&mdash;none of our women has ever been in business.
+Mary won't marry for a home&mdash;yet all of her women have, consciously or
+unconsciously, married for a home.  And Miss Jeliffe I don't know well
+enough to judge.  But I fancy she'll blaze a way for herself."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His eyes rested on Delilah.  "She has blazed a way," he said, slowly;
+"she's a most remarkable woman."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, looking up, caught his glance and smiled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Are they in love with each other?" Cousin Patty asked Mary that night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary laughed.  "Delilah's a will-o'-the-wisp; who knows?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With their days filled, there was little time for intimacy or
+confidential talks between Mary and Cousin Patty.  And since Mary would
+not ask questions about Roger, and since Cousin Patty seemed to have
+certain reserves in his direction, it was only meager information which
+trickled out; and with this Mary was forced to be content.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace marched in the Suffrage Parade, and they applauded her from their
+seats on the Treasury stand.  Aunt Frances, who sat with them, was
+filled with indignation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"To think that <I>my</I> daughter&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty threw down the gauntlet: "Why not your daughter, Mrs.
+Clendenning?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because the women of our family have always been&mdash;different."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"So have the women of my family," calmly, "but that's no reason why we
+should expect to stand still.  None of the women of my family ever made
+wedding cake for a living.  But that isn't any reason why I should
+starve, is it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances shifted the argument.  "But to march&mdash;on the street."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"That's their way of expressing themselves.  Men march&mdash;and have
+marched since the beginning.  Sometimes their marching doesn't mean
+anything, and sometimes it does.  And I'm inclined," said Cousin Patty
+with an emphatic nod of her head, "to think that this marching means a
+great deal."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+On and on they came, these women who marched for a Cause, heads up,
+eyes shining.  There had been something to bear at the other end of the
+line where the crowd had pressed in upon them, and there had been no
+adequate police protection, but they were ready for martyrdom, if need
+be, perhaps, some of them would even welcome it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Grace was no fanatic.  She met them afterward, and told of her
+experience gleefully.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You should have been with me, Mary," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter rose in his wrath.  "What has bewitched you women?" he demanded.
+"Do you all believe in it?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Leila piped, "I don't want to march.  I don't want to do the
+things that men do.  I want to have a nice little house, and cook and
+sew, and take care of somebody."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They all laughed.  But Porter surveyed Leila with satisfaction.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry's a lucky fellow," he said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Porter," Mary reproached him, as he helped her down from her high
+seat on the stand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Well, he is.  Leila couldn't keep her nice little house any better
+than you, Mary.  But the thing is that she <I>wants</I> to keep it for
+Barry.  And you&mdash;you want to march on the street&mdash;and laugh&mdash;at love."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She surveyed him coldly.  "That shows just how much you understand me,"
+she said, and turned her back on him and accepted an invitation to ride
+home in the Jeliffes' car.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+On the day of the Inauguration, the same party had seats on the stand
+opposite the one in front of the White House from which the President
+reviewed the troops.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it was upon the President that Cousin Patty riveted her attention.
+To be sure her little feet beat time to the music, and she flushed and
+glowed as the soldiers swept by, and the horses danced, and the people
+cheered.  But above and beyond all these things was the sight of the
+man, who in her eyes represented the resurrection of the South&mdash;the man
+who should sway it back to its old level in the affairs of the nation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I couldn't have dreamed," she emphasized, as she talked it over that
+night with Mary, "of anything so satisfying as his smile.  I shall
+always think of him as smiling out in that quiet way of his at the
+people."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary had a vision of another Inauguration and of another President who
+had smiled&mdash;a President who had captured the hearts of his countrymen
+as perhaps this scholar never would.  It was at the shrine of that
+strenuous and smiling President that Mary still worshiped.  But they
+were both great men&mdash;it was for the future to tell which would live
+longest in the hearts of the people.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The two women were in Cousin Patty's room.  They were too excited to
+sleep, for the events of the day had been stimulating.  Cousin Patty
+had suggested that Mary should get into something comfortable, and come
+back and talk.  And Mary had come, in a flowing blue gown with her fair
+hair in shining braids.  They were alone together for the first time
+since Cousin Patty's arrival.  It was a moment for which Mary had
+waited eagerly, yet now that it had come to her, she hardly knew how to
+begin.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But when she spoke, it was with an impulsive reaching out of her hands
+to the older woman.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Cousin Patty, tell me about Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty hesitated, then asked a question, almost sharply, "My
+dear, why did you fail him?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The color flooded Mary's face.  "Fail him?" she faltered.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  When he first came to me, there were your letters.  He used to
+read bits of them aloud, and I could see inspiration in them for him.
+Then he stopped reading them to me, and they seemed to bring heaviness
+with them&mdash;I can't tell you how unhappy he was until he began to make
+his work fill his life.  Do you mind telling me what made the change in
+you, my dear?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary gazed into the fire, the blood still in her face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Cousin Patty, did you know his wife?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Is it because of her, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  After Roger went away, I saw her picture.  Colin had painted it.
+And, Cousin Patty, it seemed the face of such a little&mdash;saint."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yet Roger told you his story?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you didn't believe him?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, I don't know what to believe."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I see," but Cousin Patty's manner was remote.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary slipped down to the stool at Cousin Patty's feet, and brought her
+clear eyes to the level of the little lady's.  "Dear Cousin Patty," she
+implored, "if you only know how I <I>want</I> to believe in Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty melted.  "My dear," she said with decision, "I'm going to
+tell you everything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now woman's heart spoke to woman's heart.  "I visited them in the
+first year of their marriage.  I wanted to love his wife, and at first
+she seemed charming.  But I hadn't been there a week before I was
+puzzling over her.  She was made of different clay from Roger.  In the
+intimacy of that home I discovered that she wasn't&mdash;a lady&mdash;not in our
+nice old-fashioned sense of good manners, and good morals.  She said
+things that you and I couldn't say, and she did things.  I felt the
+catastrophe in the air long before it came.  But I couldn't warn Roger.
+I just had to let him find out.  I wasn't there when the blow fell; but
+I'll tell you this, that Roger may have been a quixotic idiot in the
+eyes of the world, but if he failed it was because he was a dreamer,
+and an idealist, not a coward and a shirk."  Her eyes were blazing.
+"Oh, if you could hear what some people said of him, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary could fancy what they had said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Cousin Patty, Cousin Patty," she cried, "Do you think he will ever
+forgive me?  I have let such people talk to me, and I have listened!"
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap22"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreams.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+March, which brings to the North sharp winds and gray days, brings to
+the sand-hill country its season of greatest beauty.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Straight up from the unpromising soil springs the green&mdash;the pines bud
+and blossom, everywhere there is the delicate tracery of pale leafage,
+there is the white of dogwood, the pink of peach trees and of apple
+bloom, and again the white of cherry trees and of bridal bush.  There
+are amethystine vistas, and emerald vistas, and vistas of rose and
+saffron&mdash;the cardinals burn with a red flame in the magnolias, the
+mocking-birds sing in the moonlight.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was through the awakened world that Roger drove one Sunday to preach
+to his people.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not call it preaching.  As yet his humility gave it no such
+important name.  He simply went into the sand-hills and talked to those
+who were eager to hear.  Beginning with the boy, he had found that
+these thirsty souls drank at any spring.  The boys listened breathless
+to his tales of chivalry, the men to his tales of what other men had
+achieved, the women were reached by stories of what their children
+might be, and the children rose to his bait of fairy books and of
+colored pictures.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gradually he had gone beyond the tales of chivalry and the achievements
+of men.  Gradually he had brought them up and up.  Other men had
+preached to them, but their preaching had not been linked with lessons
+of living.  Others had cried, "Repent," but not one of them had laid
+emphasis on the fact that repentance was evidenced by the life which
+followed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Roger stood among them, his young face grave, his wonderful voice
+persuasive, and told them what it meant to be&mdash;saved.  Planting hope
+first in their hearts, he led them toward the Christ-ideal.  Manhood,
+he said, at its best was godlike; one must have purity, energy,
+education, growth.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And they, who listened, began to see that it was a spiritual as well as
+practical thing to set their houses in order, to plant and to till and
+to make the soil produce.  They saw in the future a community which was
+orderly and law-abiding, they saw their children brought out of the
+bondage of ignorance and into the freedom of knowledge.  And they saw
+more than that&mdash;they saw the Vision, faintly at first, but with
+ever-increasing clearness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a wonderful task which Roger had set for himself, and he threw
+himself into his work with flaming energy.  He hired a buggy and a
+little fat horse, and spent some of his nights <I>en route</I> in the houses
+of his friends along the way; other nights&mdash;and these were the ones he
+liked best&mdash;he slept under the pines.  With John Ballard's old Bible
+under his arm, and his prayer-book in his pocket, he went forth each
+week, and always he found a congregation ready and waiting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Over the stretches of that barren country they came to hear him,
+sailing in their schooner-wagons toward the harbor of the hope which he
+brought to them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When he had preached from his pulpit, he had talked to men and women of
+culture and he had spent much of his time in polishing a phrase, or in
+rounding out a sentence.  But now he spent his time in search of the
+clear words which would carry his&mdash;message.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For Mary had said that every man who preached must have a message.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+How far she had receded from him.  When he thought of her now it was
+with a sense of overwhelming loss.  She had chosen to withdraw herself
+from him.  In every letter he had seen signs of it&mdash;and he could not
+protest.  No man in his position could say to a woman, "I will not let
+you go."  He had nothing to offer her but his life in the pines, a life
+that could not mean much to such a woman.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But it meant much to himself.  Gradually he had come to see that love
+alone could never have brought to him what his work was bringing.  He
+had a sense of freedom such as one must have whose shackles have been
+struck off.  He began to know now what Mary had meant when she had
+said, "I feel as if I were flying through the world on strong wings."
+He, too, felt as if he were flying, and as it his wings were carrying
+him up and up beyond any heights to which he had hitherto soared.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He slept that night in one of the rare groves of old pines.  He made a
+couch of the brown needles and threw a rug over them.  The air was soft
+and heavy with resinous perfume.  As he lay there in the stillness, the
+pines stretched above him like the arches of some great cathedral.  His
+text came to him, "Come thou south wind and blow upon my garden."  It
+was a simple people to whom he would talk on the morrow, but these
+things they could understand&mdash;the winds of heaven, and the stars, and
+the little foxes that could spoil the grapes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When he woke there was a mocking-bird singing.  He had gone to sleep
+obsessed by his sermon, uplifted.  He woke with a sense of
+loneliness&mdash;a great longing for human help and understanding&mdash;a longing
+to look once more into Mary Ballard's clear eyes and to draw strength
+from the source which had once inspired him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+John Ballard's Bible lay on the rug beside him.  He opened it, and the
+leaves fell apart at a page where a rose had once been pressed.  The
+rose was dead now, and had been laid away carefully, lest it should be
+lost.  But the impress was still there, as the memory of Mary's frank
+friendliness was still in his mind.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was a long time before he closed the book.  But at last he sighed
+and rose from his couch.  It was inevitable, this drifting apart.  Fate
+would hold for Mary some brilliant future.  As for him, he must go on
+with his work alone.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet he realized, even in that moment of renunciation, that it was a
+wonderful thing that he could at last go on alone.  A year ago he had
+needed all of Mary's strength to spur him to the effort, all of her
+belief in him.  Now with his heart still crying out for her, needing
+her, he could still go on alone!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He drew a long breath, and looked up through the singing tree-tops to
+the bit of sky above.  He stood there for a long time, silent, looking
+up into the shining sky.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At ten o'clock when he entered the circle of young pines, his
+congregation was ready for him, sitting on the rough seats which the
+men had fashioned, their eager faces welcoming him, their eyes lighted.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The children whom he had taught led in the singing of the simple old
+hymns, and Roger read a prayer.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then he talked.  He withheld nothing of the poetry of his subject; and
+they rose to his eloquence.  And when light began to fill a man's eyes
+or tears to fill a woman's&mdash;Roger knew that the work of the soul was
+well begun.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Afterward he went among them, becoming one of them in friendliness and
+sympathy, but set apart and consecrated by the wisdom which made him
+their leader.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Among a group of men he spoke of politics.  "There's the new
+President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington.  His
+administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus
+he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into
+activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They were such lovely little gardens now&mdash;with violets blooming in
+their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths.  Every bit of
+bloom spoke to him of Mary.  Not for one moment had she lost her
+interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,
+to have interest in any other of his affairs.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale.  But
+to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood.  The day
+seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of
+the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
+knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
+them breathless.  For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
+sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
+did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
+was found&mdash;for he had made it a little lamb&mdash;helpless and bleating, and
+wanting very much its mother.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
+with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Later he spoke to Roger Poole.  "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
+said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me&mdash;yit."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Find yourself," said Roger.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The man stared.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
+that the children have made.  Can you match them?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
+the man.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point.  "Flowers for the
+children&mdash;crops for men&mdash;I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
+what to do with it.  Let's try to make things grow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Us?  You mean you and me, parson?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
+soul."  Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
+in the back of his eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
+shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
+through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
+somethin' in me that's bound to grow."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
+his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
+seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence.  The little lady was
+still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
+more when the rush was over.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters.  There
+was one on top from Mary Ballard.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house.  It
+contained only a scribbled line&mdash;but it set his pulses bounding.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+"DEAR ROGER POOLE:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want to be friends again.  Such friends as we were in the Tower
+Rooms.  I know I don't deserve it&mdash;but&mdash;please.
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+"MARY BALLARD."
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
+merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
+chorus of the universe.  It seemed an astounding thing that she should
+have written thus to him.  He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
+repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
+believe that such happiness could be his.  Yet she had written it; that
+she wanted to be&mdash;his friend.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship.  But as he sat
+down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
+since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
+to him than friend.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And why not?  Why shouldn't he dream?  Mary was not like other women.
+She looked above and beyond the little things.  Might not a man offer
+her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
+Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
+love&mdash;might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
+in the sand-hills bloom?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary&mdash;here
+beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
+perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
+scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
+pine&mdash;with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the
+sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain
+luxuries of cushions and rugs.  He saw her with him in deep still
+groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,
+meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness.  He
+saw&mdash;oh, dream of dreams&mdash;he saw a little white church among the
+sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not
+heard before Whittington rang them all for him.  Later, perhaps, there
+might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden&mdash;and Mary
+in the garden.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,
+needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and
+space toward the goal of happiness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said.  "A telegraf
+done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She handed it to him, and watched him anxiously as he opened it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was from Cousin Patty.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary has had sad news of Barry.  We need you.  Can you come?"
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap23"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXIII
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It was when Little-Lovely Leila was choosing certain gowns for her trip
+abroad that she had almost given away her secret to Delilah.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I want a yellow one," she had remarked, "with a primrose hat, like I
+wore when Barry and I&mdash;&mdash;"  She stopped, blushing furiously.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"When you and Barry what?" demanded Delilah.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila having started to say, "When Barry and I ran away to be married,"
+stumbled over a substitute, "Well, I wore a yellow gown&mdash;when&mdash;when&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not when he proposed, duckie.  That was the day at Fort Myer.  I knew
+it the minute I came out and saw your face; and then that telephone
+message about the picture.  Were you really jealous when you found it
+on my table?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dreadfully."  Leila breathed freely once more.  The subject of the
+primrose gown was shelved safely.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You needn't have been.  All the world knew that Barry was yours."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And he's mine now," Leila laughed; "and I am to see him in&mdash;May."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In the days which followed she was a very busy little Leila.  On every
+pretty garment that she made or bought, she embroidered in fine silk a
+wreath of primroses.  It was her own delicious secret, this adopting of
+her bridal color.  Other brides might be married in white, but she had
+been different&mdash;her gown had been the color of the great gold moon that
+had lighted their way.  What a wedding journey it had been&mdash;and how she
+and Barry would laugh over it in the years to come!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For the tragedy which had weighed so heavily began now to seem like a
+happy comedy.  In a few weeks she would see Barry, in a few weeks all
+the world would know that she was his wife!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she packed her fragrant boxes&mdash;so she embroidered, and sang, and
+dreamed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry had written that he was "making good"; and that when she came he
+would tell Gordon.  And the General should go on to Germany, and he and
+Leila would have their honeymoon trip.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You must decide where we shall go," he had said, and Leila had planned
+joyously.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dad and I motored once into Scotland, and we stopped at a little town
+for tea.  Such a queer little story-book town, Barry, with funny houses
+and with the streets so narrow that the people leaned out of their
+windows and gossiped over our heads, and I am sure they could have
+shaken hands across.  There wasn't even room for our car to turn
+around, and we had to go on and on until we came to the edge of the
+town, and there was the dearest inn.  We stopped and stayed that
+night&mdash;and the linen all smelled of lavender, and there was a sweet
+dumpling of a landlady, and old-fashioned flowers in a trim little
+garden&mdash;and all the hills beyond and a lake.  Let's go there, Barry; it
+will be beautiful."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They planned, too, to go into lodgings afterward in London.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The thought of lodgings gave Leila a thrill.  She hunted out her fat
+little volume of Martin Chuzzlewit and gloated over Ruth Pinch and her
+beef-steak pie.  She added two or three captivating aprons to the
+contents of the fragrant boxes.  She even bought a cook-book, and it
+was with a sigh that she laid the cook-book away when Barry wrote that
+in such lodgings as he would choose the landlady would serve their
+meals in the sitting-room.  And this plan would give Leila more time to
+see the sights of London!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But what cared Little-Lovely Leila for seeing sights?  Anybody could
+see sights&mdash;any dreary and dried-up fossil, any crabbed and cranky old
+maid&mdash;the Tower and Westminster Abbey were for those who had nothing
+better to do.  As for herself, her horizon just now was bounded by
+primrose wreaths and fragrant boxes, and the promise of seeing Barry in
+May!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But fate, which has strange things in store for all of us, had this in
+store for little Leila, that she was not to see Barry in May, and the
+reason that she was not to see him was Jerry Tuckerman.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Meeting Mary in the street one day early in February, Jerry had said,
+"I am going to run over to London this week.  Shall I take your best to
+Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary's eyes had met his squarely.  "Be sure you take <I>your</I> best,
+Jerry," she had said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He had laughed his defiance.  "Barry's all right&mdash;but you've got to
+give him a little rope, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When he had left her, Mary had walked on slowly, her heart filled with
+foreboding.  Barry was not like Jerry.  Jerry, coarse of fiber, lacking
+temperament, would probably come to middle age safely&mdash;he would never
+be called upon to pay the piper as Barry would for dancing to the tune
+of the follies of youth.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She wrote to Gordon, warning him.  "Keep Barry busy," she said.  "Jerry
+told me that he intended to have 'the time of his young life'&mdash;and he
+will want Barry to share it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon smiled over the letter.  "Poor Mary," he told Constance; "she
+has carried Barry for so long on her shoulders, and she can't realize
+that he is at last learning to stand alone."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Constance did not smile.  "We never could bear Jerry Tuckerman; he
+always made Barry do things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Nobody can make me do things when I don't want to do them," said
+Gordon comfortably and priggishly, "and Barry must learn that he can't
+put the blame on anybody's shoulders but his own."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Constance sighed.  She did not quite share Gordon's sense of security.
+Barry was different.  He was a dear, and trying so hard; but Jerry had
+always had some power to sway him from his best, a sinister
+inexplicable influence.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Jerry, arriving, hung around Barry for several days, tempting him, like
+the villain in the play.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Barry refused to be tempted.  He was busy&mdash;and he had just had a
+letter from Leila.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I simply can't run around town with you, Tuckerman," he explained.
+"Holding down a job in an office like this isn't like holding down a
+government job."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"So they've put your nose to the grindstone?" Jerry grinned as he said
+it, and Barry flushed.  "I like it, Tuckerman; there's something ahead,
+and Gordon has me slated for a promotion."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But what did a promotion mean to Jerry's millions?  And Barry was good
+company, and anyhow&mdash;oh, he couldn't see Ballard doing a steady stunt
+like this.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Motor into Scotland with me next week," he insisted; "get a week off,
+and I'll pick up a gay party.  It's a bit early, but we'll stop in the
+big towns."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry shook his head.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila and the General are coming over in May&mdash;she wants to take that
+trip&mdash;and, anyhow, I can't get away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, well, wait and take your nice little ride with Leila," Jerry said,
+good-naturedly enough, "but don't tie yourself too soon to a woman's
+apron string, Ballard&mdash;wait till you've had your fling."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Barry didn't want a fling.  He, too, was dreaming.  On
+half-holidays and Sundays he haunted neighborhoods where there were
+rooms to let.  And when one day he chanced on a sunshiny suite where a
+pot of primroses bloomed in the window, he lingered and looked.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"If they're empty a month from now I'll take them," he said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A guinea down and I'll keep them for you," was the smiling response of
+the pleasant landlady.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So Barry blushingly paid the guinea, and began to buy little things to
+make the rooms beautiful&mdash;a bamboo basket for flowers&mdash;a Sheffield
+tray&mdash;a quaint tea-caddy&mdash;an antique footstool for Leila's little feet.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet there were moments in the midst of his elation when some chill
+breath of fear touched him, and it was in one of these moods that he
+wrote out of his heart to his little bride.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Sometimes, when I think of you, sweetheart, I realize how little there
+is in me which is deserving of that which you are giving me.  When your
+letters come, I read them and think and think about them.  And the
+thing I think is this: Am I going to be able all my life to live up to
+your expectations?  Don't expect too much, dear heart.  I wonder if I
+am more cowardly about facing life than other men.  Now and then things
+seem to loom up in front of me&mdash;great shadows which block my way&mdash;and I
+grow afraid that I can't push them out of your path and mine.  And if I
+should not push them, what then?  Would they engulf you, and should I
+be to blame?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary found Leila puzzling over this letter.  "It doesn't sound like
+Barry," she said, in a little frightened voice.  "May I read it to you,
+Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary had stopped in for tea on her way home from the office.  But the
+tea waited.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry is usually so&mdash;hopeful," Leila said, when she had finished;
+"somehow I can't help&mdash;worrying."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary was worried.  She knew these moods.  Barry had them when he was
+fighting "blue devils."  She was afraid&mdash;haunted by the thought of
+Jerry.  She tried to speak cheerfully.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You'll be going over soon," she said, "and then all the world will be
+bright to him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila hesitated.  "I wish," she faltered, "that I could be with him now
+to help him&mdash;fight."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary gave her a startled glance.  Their eyes met.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Leila," Mary said, with a little gasp, "who told you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Barry"&mdash;the tea was forgotten&mdash;"before&mdash;before he went away."  The
+vision was upon her of that moment when he had knelt at her feet on
+their bridal night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Haltingly, she spoke of her lover's weakness.  "I've wanted to ask you,
+Mary, and when this letter came, I just had to ask.  If you think it
+would be better&mdash;if we were married, if I could make a home for him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It wouldn't be better for you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want to think about myself," Leila said, passionately;
+"everybody thinks about me.  It is Barry I want to think of, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary patted the flushed cheek.  "Barry is a fortunate boy," she said.
+Then, with hesitation, "Leila, when you knew, did it make a difference?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Difference?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In your feeling for Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the child eyes were woman eyes.  "Yes," she said, "it made a
+difference.  But the difference was this&mdash;that I loved him more.  I
+don't know whether I can explain it so that you will understand, Mary.
+But then you aren't like me.  You've always been so wonderful, like
+Barry.  But you see I've never been wonderful.  I've always been just a
+little silly thing, pretty enough for people to like, and childish
+enough for everybody to pet, and because I was pretty and little and
+childish, nobody seemed to think that I could be anything else.  And
+for a long time I didn't dream that Barry was in love with me.  I just
+knew that I&mdash;cared.  But it was the kind of caring that didn't expect
+much in return.  And when Barry said that I was the only woman in the
+world for him&mdash;I had the feeling that it was a pleasant dream, and
+that&mdash;that some day I'd wake up and find that he had made a mistake and
+that he should have chosen a princess instead of just a little
+goosie-girl.  But when I knew that Barry had to fight, everything
+changed.  I knew that I could really help.  More than the princess,
+perhaps, because you see she might not have cared to bother&mdash;and she
+might not have loved him enough to&mdash;overlook."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You blessed child," Mary said with a catch in her voice, "you mustn't
+be so humble&mdash;it's enough to spoil any man."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Not Barry," Leila said; "he loves me because I am so loving."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, wisdom of the little heart.  There might be men who could love for
+the sake of conquest; there might be men who could meet coldness with
+ardor, and affection with indifference.  Barry was not one of these.
+The sacred fire which burned in the heart of his sweet mistress had
+lighted the flame in his own.  It was Leila's love as well as Leila
+that he wanted.  And she knew and treasured the knowledge.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was when Mary left that she said, with forced lightness, "You'll be
+going soon, and what a summer you will have together."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was on Leila's lips to cry, "But I want our life together to begin
+now.  What's one summer in a whole life of love?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But she did not voice her cry.  She kissed Mary and smiled wistfully,
+and went back into the dusky room to dream of Barry&mdash;Barry her young
+husband, with whom she had walked in her little yellow gown over the
+hills and far away.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And while she dreamed, Barry, in Jerry Tuckerman's big blue car, was
+flying over other hills, and farther away from Leila than he had ever
+been in his life.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was as Mary had feared.  Barry's strength in his first resistance of
+Jerry's importunities had made him over-confident, so that when, at the
+end of the month, Jerry had returned and had pressed his claim, Barry
+had consented to lunch with him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+At luncheon they met Jerry's crowd and Barry drank just one glass of
+golden sparkling stuff.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But the one glass was enough to fire his blood&mdash;enough to change the
+aspect of the world&mdash;enough to make him reckless, boisterous&mdash;enough to
+make him consent to join at once Jerry's party in a motor trip to
+Scotland.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In that moment the world of work receded, the world of which Leila was
+the center receded&mdash;the life which had to do with lodgings and
+primroses and Sheffield trays was faint and blurred to his mental
+vision.  But this life, which had to do with laughter and care-free
+joyousness and forgetfulness, this was the life for a man who was a man.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Jerry was saying, "There will be the three of us and the chauffeur&mdash;and
+we will take things in hampers and things in boxes, and things in
+bottles."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Barry laughed.  It was not a loud laugh, just a light boyish chuckle,
+and as he rose and stood with his hand resting on the table, many eyes
+were turned upon him.  He was a handsome young American, his beautiful
+blond head held high.  "You mustn't expect," he said, still with that
+light laughter, "that I am going to bring any bottles.  Only thing I've
+got is a tea-caddy.  Honest&mdash;a tea-caddy, and a Sheffield tray."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then some memory assailing him, he faltered, "And a little foolish
+footstool."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Sit down," Jerry said.  There was something strangely appealing in
+that gay young figure with the shining eyes.  In spite of himself,
+Jerry felt uncomfortable.  "Sit down," he said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So Barry sat down, and laughed at nothing, and talked about nothing,
+and found it all very enchanting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He packed his bag and left a note for Gordon and when he piled finally
+with the others into Jerry's car, he was ready to shout with them that
+it was a long lane which had no turning, and that work was a bore and
+would always be.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And so the ride which Leila had planned for herself and her young
+husband became a wild ride, in which these young knights of the road
+pursued fantastic adventures, with memories blank, and with consciences
+soothed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For days they rode, stopping at various inns along the way, startling
+the staid folk of the villages by their laughter late into the night;
+making boon companions in an hour, and leaving them with tears, to
+forget them at the first turn of the corner.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Written as old romance, such things seem of the golden age; looked upon
+in the light of Barry's future and of Leila's, they were tragedy
+unspeakable.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now the car went up and up, to come down again to some stretch of
+sand, with the mountains looming black against one horizon, the sea a
+band of sapphire against another.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And so, fate drawing them nearer and nearer, they came at last to the
+little town which Leila had described in her letter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Going in, some one spoke the name, and Barry had a stab of memory.  Who
+had talked of narrow streets, across which people gossiped&mdash;and shook
+hands?&mdash;who had spoken of having tea in that little shop?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He asked the question of his companions, "Who called this a story-book
+town?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They laughed at him.  "You dreamed it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Steadily his mind began to work.  He fumbled in his pocket, and found
+Leila's letter.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Searching through it, he discovered the name of the little place.  "I
+didn't dream it," he announced triumphantly; "my wife told me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Wake up," Jerry said, "and thank the gods that you are single."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Barry stood swaying.  "My little wife told me&mdash;<I>Leila</I>!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+With a sudden cry, he lurched forward.  His arm struck the arm of the
+driver beside him.  The car gave a sudden turn.  The streets were
+narrow&mdash;so narrow that one might almost shake hands across them!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And there was a crash!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Jerry was not hurt, nor the other adventurers.  The chauffeur was
+stunned.  But Barry was crumpled up against the stone steps of one of
+the funny little houses, and lay there with Leila's letter all red
+under him.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It was Porter and Mary who told Leila.  The General had begged them to
+do it.  "I can't," he had said, pitifully.  "I've faced guns, but I
+can't face the hurt in my darling's eyes."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So Mary's arms were around her when she whispered to the child-wife
+that Barry was&mdash;dead.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter had faltered first something about an accident&mdash;that the doctors
+were&mdash;afraid.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila, shaking, had looked from one to the other.  "I must go to him,"
+she had cried.  "You see, I am his wife.  I have a right to go."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>His wife</I>?"  Of all things they had not expected this.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, we have been married a year&mdash;we ran away."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"When, dear?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Last March&mdash;to Rockville&mdash;and&mdash;and we were going to tell everybody the
+next day&mdash;and then Barry lost his place&mdash;and we couldn't."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Oh, poor little widow, poor little child!  Mary drew her close.
+"Leila, Leila," she whispered, "dear little sister, dear little girl,
+we must love and comfort each other."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And then Leila knew.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But they did not tell her how it had happened.  The details of that
+last ride the woman who loved him need never know.  Barry was to be her
+hero always.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap24"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXIV
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+It was Cousin Patty who had suggested sending for Roger.  "He can look
+after me, Mary.  If you won't let me go home, I don't want you to have
+the thought of me to burden you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You couldn't be a burden.  And I don't know what Aunt Isabelle and I
+should have done without you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She began to cry weakly, and Cousin Patty, comforting her, said in her
+heart, "There is no one but Roger who can say the right things to her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As yet no one had said the right things.  It seemed to Mary that she
+carried a wound too deep for healing.  Gordon had softened the truth as
+much as possible, but he could not hide it from her.  She knew that
+Barry, her boy Barry, had gone out of the world defeated.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was Roger who helped her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He came first upon her as she sat alone in the garden by the fountain.
+It was a sultry spring day, and heavy clouds hung low on the horizon.
+Thin and frail in her black frock, she rose to meet him, the ghost of
+the girl who had once bloomed like a flower in her scarlet wrap.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger took her hands in his.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You poor little child," he said; "you poor little child."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She did not cry.  She simply looked up at him, frozen-white.  "Oh, it
+wasn't fair for him to go&mdash;that way.  He tried so hard.  He tried so
+hard."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know.  And it was a great fight he put up, you must remember that."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But to fail&mdash;at the last."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You mustn't think of that.  Somehow I can see Barry still fighting,
+and winning.  One of a glorious company."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A glorious company&mdash;Barry?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Why not?  We are judged by the fight we make, not by our
+victory."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She drew a long breath.  "Everybody else has been sorry.   Nobody else
+could seem to understand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps I understand," he said, "because I know what it is to
+fight&mdash;and fail."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But you are winning now."  The color swept into her pale cheeks.
+"Cousin Patty told me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  You showed me the way&mdash;I have tried to follow it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, how ignorant I was," she cried, tempestuously, "when I talked to
+you of life.  I thought I knew everything."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You knew enough to help me.  If I can help you a little now it will be
+only a fair exchange."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It helped her merely to have him there.  "You spoke of Barry's still
+fighting and winning.  Do you think that one goes on fighting?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?  It would seem only just that he should conquer.  There are
+men who are not tempted, whose goodness is negative.  Character is made
+by resistance against evil, not by lack of knowledge of it.  And the
+judgments of men are not those which count in the final verdict."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He said more than this, breaking the bonds of her despair.  Others had
+pitied Barry.  Roger defended him.  She began to think of her brother,
+not as her imagination had pictured him, flung into utter darkness, but
+with his head up&mdash;his beautiful fair head, a shining sword in his hand,
+fighting against the powers of evil&mdash;stumbling, falling, rising again.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He saw her relax as she listened, and his love for her taught him what
+to say.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And as he talked, her eyes noted the change in him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+This was not the Roger Poole of the Tower Rooms.  This was a Roger
+Poole who had found himself.  She could see it in his manner&mdash;she could
+hear it in his voice, it shone from his eyes.  Here was a man who
+feared nothing, not even the whispers that had once had power to hurt.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The clouds were sweeping toward them, hiding the blue; the wind whirled
+the dead leaves from the paths, and stirred the budding branches of the
+hundred-leaved bush&mdash;touched with its first hint of tender green.  The
+mist from the fountain was like a veil which hid the mocking face of
+the bronze boy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Mary and Roger had no eyes for these warnings; each was famished
+for the other, and this meeting gave to Mary, at least, a sense of
+renewed life.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She spoke of her future.  "Constance and Gordon want me to come to
+them.  But I hate to give up my work.  I don't want to be discontented.
+Yet I dread the loneliness here.  Did you ever think I should be such a
+coward?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You are not a coward&mdash;you are a woman&mdash;wanting the things that belong
+to you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She sat very still.  "I wonder&mdash;what are the things which belong to a
+woman?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Love&mdash;a home&mdash;happiness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And you think I want these things?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I know it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How do you know?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because you have tried work&mdash;and it has failed.  You have tried
+independence&mdash;and it has failed.  You have tried freedom, and have
+found it bondage."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He was once more in the grip of the dream which he had dreamed as he
+had sat with Mary's letter in his hand on Cousin Patty's porch.  If she
+would come to him there would be no more loneliness.  His love should
+fill her life, and there would be, too, the love of his people.  She
+should win hearts while he won souls.  If only she would care enough to
+come.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was the fear that she might not care which suddenly gripped him.
+Surely this was not the moment to press his demands upon her&mdash;when
+sorrow lay so heavily on her heart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So blind, and cruel in his blindness, he held back the words which rose
+to his lips.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Some day life will bring the things which belong to you," he said at
+last.  "I pray God that it may bring them to you some day."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A line of Browning's came into her mind, and rang like a knell&mdash;"Some
+day, meaning no day."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She shivered and rose.  "We must go in; there's rain in those clouds,
+and wind."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He rose also and stood looking down at her.  Her eyes came up to his,
+her clear eyes, shadowed now by pain.  What he might have said to her
+in another moment would have saved both of them much weariness and
+heartache.  But he was not to say it, for the storm was upon them
+driving them before it, slamming doors, banging shutters in the big
+house as they came to it&mdash;a miniature cyclone, in its swift descent.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And as if he had ridden in on the wings of the storm came Porter
+Bigelow, his red mane blown like a flame back from his face, his long
+coat flapping.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He stopped short at the sight of Roger.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Hello, Poole," he said; "when did you arrive?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This morning."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They shook hands, but there was no sign of a welcome in Porter's face.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Pretty stiff storm," he remarked, as the three of them stood by the
+drawing-room window, looking out.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The rain came in shining sheets&mdash;the lightning blazed&mdash;the thunder
+boomed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"It is the first thunder-storm of the season," Mary said.  "It will
+wake up the world."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"In the South," Roger said, "the world is awake.  You should see our
+gardens."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I wish I could; Cousin Patty asked me to come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Will you?" eagerly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's my work."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Take a holiday, and let me show you the pines."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter broke in impatiently, almost insolently.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary needs companionship, not pines.  I think she should go to
+Constance.  Leila and the General will go over as they planned in May,
+and the Jeliffes&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"There's more than a month before May&mdash;which she could spend with us."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter stared.  This was a new Roger, an insistent, demanding Roger.
+He spoke coldly.  "Constance wants Mary at once.  I don't think we
+should say anything to dissuade her.  Aunt Isabelle and I can take her
+over."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now Mary's head went up.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I haven't decided, Porter."  She was fighting for freedom.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Constance needs you, Mary&mdash;and you need her."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, no," Mary said, brokenly, "Constance doesn't need me.  She has
+Gordon and the baby.  Nobody needs me&mdash;now."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger saw the quick blood flame in Porter's face.  He felt it flame in
+his own.  And just for one fleeting moment, over the bowed head of the
+girl, the challenging eyes of the two men met.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances, who came over with Grace in the afternoon, went home in a
+high state of indignation.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why Patty Carew and Roger Poole should take possession of Mary in that
+fashion," she said to her daughter at dinner, "is beyond me.  They
+don't belong there, and it would have been in better taste to leave at
+such a time."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary begged Cousin Patty to stay," Grace said, "and as for Roger
+Poole, he has simply made Mary over.  She has been like a stone image
+until to-day."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't see any difference," Aunt Frances said.  "What do you mean,
+Grace?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, her eyes and the color in her cheeks, and the way she does her
+hair."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The way she does her hair?"  Aunt Frances laid down her fork and
+stared.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes.  Since the awful news came, Mary has seemed to lose interest in
+everything.  She adored Barry, and she's never going to get over
+it&mdash;not entirely.  I miss the old Mary."  Grace stopped to steady her
+voice.  "But when I went up with her to her room to talk to her while
+she dressed for dinner, she put up her hair in that pretty boyish way
+that she used to wear it, and it was all for Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not for Porter?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Because she hasn't cared how she looked, and Porter has been there
+every day.  He has been there too often."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Do you think Roger will try to get her to marry him?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Who knows?  He's dead in love with her.  But he looks upon her as too
+rare for the life he leads.  That's the trouble with men.  They are
+afraid they can't make the right woman happy, so they ask the wrong
+one.  Now if we women could do the proposing&mdash;&mdash;"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Grace!"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Don't look at me in that shocked way, mother.  I am just voicing what
+every woman knows&mdash;that the men who ask her aren't the ones she would
+have picked out if she had had the choice.  And Mary will wait and
+weary, and Roger will worship and hang back, and in the meantime Porter
+will demand and demand and demand&mdash;and in the end he'll probably get
+what he wants."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances beamed.  "I hope so."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Mary will be miserable."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Then she'll be very silly."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace sighed.  "No woman is silly who asks for the best.  Mother, I'd
+love to marry a man with a mission&mdash;I'd like to go to the South Sea
+Islands and teach the natives, or to Darkest Africa&mdash;or to China, or
+India, anywhere away from a life in which there's nothing but bridge,
+and shopping, and deadly dullness."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She was in earnest now, and her mother saw it.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't see how you can say such things," she quavered.  "I don't see
+how you can talk of going to such impossible places&mdash;away from me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace cut short the plaintive wail.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Of course I have no idea of going," she said, "but such a life would
+furnish its own adventures; I wouldn't have to manufacture them."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was with the wish to make life something more than it was that Grace
+asked Roger the next day, "Is there any work here in town like yours
+for the boy&mdash;you see Mary has told me about him."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He smiled.  "Everywhere there are boys and girls, unawakened&mdash;if only
+people would look for them; and with your knowledge of languages you
+could do great things with the little foreigners&mdash;turn a bunch of them
+into good citizens, for example."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"How?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Reach them first through pictures and music&mdash;then through their
+patriotism.  Don't let them learn politics and plunder on the streets;
+let them find their place in this land from you, and let them hear from
+you of the God of our fathers."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace felt his magnetism.  "I wish you could go through the streets of
+New York saying such things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He shook his head.  "I shall not come to the city.  My place is found,
+and I shall stay there; but I have faith to believe that there will yet
+be a Voice to speak, to which the world shall listen."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Soon?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Everything points to an awakening.  People are beginning to say, 'Tell
+us,' where a few years ago they said, 'There is nothing to tell.'"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I see&mdash;it will be wonderful when it comes&mdash;I'm going to try to do my
+little bit, and be ready, and when Mary comes back, she shall help me."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+His eyes went to where Mary sat between Porter and Aunt Frances.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She may never come back."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She must be made to come."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Who could make her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"The man she loves."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She flashed a sparkling glance at him, and rose.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Come, mother," she said, "it is time to go."  Then, as she gave Roger
+her hand, she smiled.  "Faint heart," she murmured, "don't you know
+that a man like you, if he tries, can conquer the&mdash;world?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She left Roger with his pulses beating madly.  What did she mean?  Did
+she think that&mdash;Mary&mdash;&mdash;?  He went up to the Tower Rooms to dress for
+dinner, with his mind in a whirl.  The windows were open and the warm
+air blew in.  Looking out, he could see in the distance the shining
+river&mdash;like a silver ribbon, and the white shaft of the Monument, which
+seemed to touch the sky.  But he saw more than that; he saw his future
+and Mary's; again he dreamed his dreams.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If he had hoped for a moment alone that night with the lady of his
+heart, he was doomed to disappointment, for Leila and her father came
+to dinner.  Leila was very still and sweet in her widow's black, the
+General brooding over her.  And again Roger had the sense that in this
+house of sorrow there was no place for love-making.  For the joy that
+might be his&mdash;he must wait; even though he wearied in the waiting.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And it was while he waited that he lunched one day with Porter Bigelow.
+The invitation had surprised him, and he had felt vaguely troubled and
+oppressed by the thought that back of it might be some motive as yet
+unrevealed.  But there had been nothing to do but accept, and at one
+o'clock he was at the University Club.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a time they spoke of indifferent things, then Porter said, bluntly,
+"I am not going to beat about the bush, Poole.  I've asked you here to
+talk about Mary Ballard."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You're in love with her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes&mdash;but I question your right to play inquisitor."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I haven't any right, except my interest in Mary.  But I claim that my
+interest justifies the inquisition."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Perhaps."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You want to marry her?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger shifted his position, and leaned forward, meeting Porter's stormy
+eyes squarely.  "Again I question your right, Bigelow."
+</P>
+
+<A NAME="img-360"></A>
+<CENTER>
+<IMG SRC="images/img-360.jpg" ALT="&quot;Again I question your right.&quot;" BORDER="2" WIDTH="412" HEIGHT="570">
+<H4>
+[Illustration: "Again I question your right."]
+</H4>
+</CENTER>
+
+<P>
+"It isn't a question of right now, Poole, and you know it.  You're in
+love with her, I'm in love with her.  We both want her.  In days past
+men settled such things with swords or pistols.  You and I are
+civilized and modern; but it's got to be settled just the same."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Miss Ballard will have to settle it&mdash;not you or I."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"She can't settle it.  Mary is a dreamer.  You capture her with your
+imagination&mdash;with your talk of your work&mdash;and your people and the
+little gardens, and all that.  And she sees it as you want her to see
+it, not as it really is.  But I know the deadly dullness, the
+awfulness.  Why, man, I spent a winter down there, at one of the
+resorts and now and then we rode through the country.  It was a desert,
+I tell you, Poole, a desert; it is no place for a woman."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You saw nothing but the charred pines and the sand.  I could show you
+other things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What, for example?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I could show you an awakened people.  I could show you a community
+throwing off the shackles of idleness and ignorance.  I could show you
+men once tied to old traditions, meeting with eagerness the new ideals.
+There is nothing in the world more wonderful than such an awakening,
+Bigelow.  But one must have the Vision to grasp it.  And faith to
+believe it.  It is the dreamers, thank God, who see beyond to-day into
+to-morrow.  I haven't wealth or position to offer Mary, but I can offer
+her a world which needs her.  And if I know her, as I think I do, she
+will care more for my world than for yours."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He did not raise his voice, but Porter felt the force of his restrained
+eloquence, as he knew Mary would feel it if it were applied to her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now he shot his poisoned dart.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"At first, perhaps.  But when it came to building a home, there'd be
+always the stigma of your past, and she's a proud little thing, Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger winced.  "My past is buried.  It is my future of which we must
+speak."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"You can't bury a past.  You haven't even a pulpit to preach from."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Roger pushed back his chair.  "I am tempted to wish," his voice was
+grim, "that we were not quite so civilized, not quite so modern.
+Pistols or swords would seem an easier way than this."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'm fighting for Mary.  You've got to let go.  None of her friends
+want it&mdash;Gordon would never consent."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed to Roger that all the whispers which had assailed him in the
+days of long ago were rushing back upon him in a roaring wave of sound.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He rose, white and shaken.  "Do you call it victory when one man stabs
+another through the heart?  Well, if this is your victory, Bigelow&mdash;you
+are welcome to it."
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap25"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXV
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life; and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Contrary Mary was Contrary Mary no longer.  Since Roger had gone,
+taking Cousin Patty with him&mdash;gone without the word to her for which
+she had waited, she had submitted to Gordon's plans for her, and to
+Aunt Frances' and Porter's execution of them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Only to Grace did she show any signs of her old rebellion.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Did you ever think that I should be beaten, Grace?" she said,
+pitifully.  "Is that the way with all women?  Do we reach out for so
+much, and then take what we can get?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Grace pondered.  "Things tie us down, but we don't have to stay
+tied&mdash;and I am beginning to see a way out for myself, Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She told of her talk with Roger and of her own strenuous desire to
+help; but she did not tell what she had said to him at the last.  There
+was something here which she could not understand.  Mary persistently
+refused to talk about him.  Even now she shifted the topic.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't want to strive," she said, "not even for the sake of others.
+I want to rest for a thousand years&mdash;and sleep for the next thousand."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And this from Mary, buoyant, vivid Mary, with her almost boyish
+strength and energy.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The big house was to be closed.  Aunt Isabelle would go with Mary.
+Susan Jenks and Pittiwitz would be domiciled in the kitchen wing, with
+a friend of Susan's to keep them company.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, wandering on the last day through the Tower Rooms, thought of the
+night when Roger Poole had first come to them.  And now he would never
+come again.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She had not been able to understand his abrupt departure.  Yet there
+had been nothing to resent&mdash;he had been infinitely kind, sympathetic,
+strong, helpful.  If she missed something from his manner which had
+been there on the day of his arrival, she told herself that perhaps it
+had not been there, that her own joy in seeing him had made her imagine
+a like joy in his attitude toward her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Cousin Patty had cried over her, kissed her, and protested that she
+could not bear to go.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"But Roger thinks it is best, my dear.  He is needed at home."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It seemed plausible that he might be needed, yet in the back of Mary's
+mind was a doubt.  What had sent him away?  She was haunted by the
+feeling that some sinister influence had separated them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+A pitiful little figure in black, she made the tour of the empty rooms
+with Pittiwitz mewing plaintively at her heels.  The little cat, with
+the instinct of her kind, felt the atmosphere of change.  Old rugs on
+which she had sprawled were rolled up and reeking with moth balls.  The
+little white bed, on which she had napped unlawfully, was stripped to
+the mattress.  The cushions on which she had curled were packed
+away&mdash;the fire was out&mdash;the hearth desolate.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Susan Jenks, coming up, found Mary with the little cat in her lap.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, honey child, don't cry like that."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Susan, Susan, it will never be the same again, never the same."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now once more in the garden, the roses bloomed on the
+hundred-leaved bush, once more the fountain sang, and the little bronze
+boy laughed through a veil of mist&mdash;but there were no gay voices in the
+garden, no lovers on the stone seat.  Susan Jenks kept the paths trim
+and watered the flowers, and Pittiwitz chased butterflies or stretched
+herself in the sun, lazily content, forgetting, gradually, those who
+had for a time made up her world.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But Mary, on the high seas, could not forget what she had left behind.
+It was not Susan Jenks, it was not Pittiwitz, it was not the garden
+which called her back, although these had their part in her regrets&mdash;it
+was the old life, the life which had belonged to her childhood and her
+girlhood the life which had been lived with her mother and father and
+Constance&mdash;and Barry.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As she lay listless in her deck chair, she could see nothing in her
+future which would match the happiness of the past.  The days lived in
+the old house had never been days of great prosperity; her father had,
+indeed, often been weighed down with care&mdash;there had been times of
+heavy anxieties&mdash;but, there had been between them all the bond of deep
+affection, of mutual dependence.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+In Gordon's home there would be splendors far beyond any she had known,
+there would be ease and luxury, and these would be shared with her
+freely and ungrudgingly, yet to a nature like Mary Ballard's such
+things meant little.  The real things in life to her were love and
+achievement; all else seemed stale and unprofitable.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Of course there would be Constance and the baby.  On the hope of seeing
+them she lived.  Yet in a sense Gordon and the baby stood between
+herself and Constance&mdash;they absorbed her sister, satisfied her, so that
+Mary's love was only one drop added to a full cup.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was while she pondered over her future that Mary was moved to write
+to Roger Poole.  The mere putting of her thoughts on paper would ease
+her loneliness.  She would say what she felt, frankly, freely, and when
+the little letters were finished, if her mood changed she need not send
+them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So she began to scribble, setting down each day the thoughts which
+clamored for expression.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter complained that now she was always writing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I'd rather write than talk," Mary said, wearily; and at last he let
+the matter drop.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Mid-Sea.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+DEAR FRIEND O' MINE:
+</P>
+
+<P>
+You asked me to write, and you will think that I have more than kept my
+promise when you get this journal of our days at sea.  But it has
+seemed to me that you might enjoy it all, just as if you were with us,
+instead of down among your sand-hills, with your sad children (are they
+really sad now?) and Cousin Patty's wedding cakes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+There's quite a party of us.  Leila and her father and the Jeliffes and
+Colin kept to their original plan of coming in May, and we decided it
+would be best to cross at the same time, so there's Aunt Frances and
+Grace and Aunt Isabelle, and Porter&mdash;and me&mdash;ten of us.  If you and
+Cousin Patty were here, you'd round out a dozen.  I wish you were here.
+How Cousin Patty would enjoy it&mdash;with her lovely enthusiasms, and her
+interest in everything.  Do give her much love.  I shall write to her
+when I reach London, for I know she will be traveling with us in
+spirit; she said she was going to live in England by proxy this summer,
+and I shall help her all I can by sending pictures, and you must tell
+her the books to read.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+To think that I am on my way to the London of your Dick Whittington!  I
+call him yours because you made me really see him for the first time.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"<I>There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone.</I>"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I am to hear all the bells, and to see the things I have always
+longed to see!  Yet&mdash;and I haven't told this to any one but you, Roger
+Poole, the thought doesn't bring one little bit of gladness&mdash;it isn't
+London that I want, or England.  I want my garden and my old big house,
+and things as they used to be.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I am sailing fast away from it&mdash;the old life into the new!
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So far we have had fair weather.  It is always best to speak of the
+weather first, isn't it?&mdash;so that we can have our minds free for other
+things.  It hasn't been at all rough; even Leila, who isn't a good
+sailor, has been able to stay on deck and people are so much interested
+in her.  She seems such a child for her widow's black.  Oh, what
+children they were, my boy Barry and his little wife, and yet they were
+man and woman, too.  Leila has been letting me see some of his letters;
+he showed her a side which he never revealed to me, but I am not
+jealous.  I am only glad that, for her, my boy Barry became a man.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I am going to try to keep the sadness out of my scribbles to you,
+only now and then it will creep in, and you must forgive it, because
+you see it isn't easy to think that we are all here who loved him, and
+he, who loved so much to be with us, is somewhere&mdash;oh, where is he,
+Roger Poole, in that vast infinity which stretches out and out, beyond
+the sea, beyond the sky, into eternity?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+All day I have been lying in my deck chair, and have let the world go
+by.  It is clear and cool, and the sea rises up like a wall of
+sapphire.  Last night we seemed to plough through a field of gold.  The
+world is really a lovely place, the big outside world, but it isn't the
+outside world which makes our happiness, it is the world within us, and
+when the heart is tired&mdash;&mdash;
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But now I must talk of some one else besides my self.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Shall I tell you of Delilah?  She attracts much attention, with her
+gracious manner and her wonderful clothes.  All the people are crazy
+about her.  They think she is English, and a duchess at least.  Colin
+is as pleased as Punch at the success he has made of her, and he just
+stands aside and watches her, and flickers his pale lashes and smiles.
+Last night she danced some of the new dances, and her tango is as
+stately as a minuet.  She and Porter danced together&mdash;and everybody
+stopped to look at them.  The gossip is going the rounds that they are
+engaged.  Oh, I wish they were&mdash;I wish they were!  It would be good for
+him to meet his match.  Delilah could hold her own; she wouldn't let
+him insist and manage until she was positively mesmerized, as I am.
+Delilah has such a queenly way of ruling her world.  All the men on
+board trail after her.  But she makes most of them worship from afar.
+As for the women, she picks the best, instinctively, and the ice which
+seems congealed around the heart of the average Britisher melts before
+her charm, so that already she is playing bridge with the proper
+people, and having tea with the inner circle.  Even with these she
+seems to assume an air of remoteness, which seems to set her apart&mdash;and
+it is this air, Grace says, which conquers.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+When people aren't coupling Porter's name with Delilah's, they are
+coupling it with Grace's.  You should see our "red-headed woodpeckers,"
+as poor Barry used to call them.  When they promenade, Grace wears a
+bit of a black hat that shows all of her glorious hair, and Porter's
+cap can't hide his crown of glory.  At first people thought they were
+brother and sister, but since it is known that they aren't I can see
+that everybody is puzzled.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It is all like a play passing in front of me.  There are charming
+English people&mdash;charming Americans and some uncharming ones.  Oh, why
+don't we, who began in such simplicity, try to remain a simple people?
+It just seems to me sometimes as if everybody on board is trying to
+show off.  The rich ones are trying to display their money, and the
+intellectual ones their brains.  Is there any real difference between
+the new-rich and the new-cultured, Roger Poole?  One tells about her
+three motor cars, and the other tells about her three degrees.  It is
+all tiresome.  The world is a place to have things and to know things,
+but if the having them and knowing them makes them so important that
+you have to talk about them all the time there's something wrong.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+That's the charm of Grace.  She has money and position&mdash;and I've told
+you how she simply carried off all the honors at college; she paints
+wonderfully, and her opinions are all worth listening to.  But she
+doesn't throw her knowledge at you.  She is interested in people, and
+puts books where they belong.  She is really the only one whom I
+welcome without any misgivings, except darling Aunt Isabelle.  The
+others when they come to talk to me, are either too sad or too
+energetic.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Doesn't all that sound as if I were a selfish little pig?  Well, some
+day I shall enjoy them all&mdash;but now&mdash;my heart is crying&mdash;and Leila,
+with her little white face, hurts.  Mrs. Barry Ballard!  Shall I ever
+get used to hearing her called that?  It seems to set her apart from
+little Leila Dick, so that when I hear people speak to her, I am always
+startled and surprised.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now&mdash;what are you doing?  Are you still planting little gardens,
+and talking to your boy&mdash;talking to your sad people?  Cousin Patty has
+told me of your letter to your bishop, who was so kind during
+your&mdash;trouble&mdash;and of his answer&mdash;and of your hope that some day you
+may have a little church in the sand-hills, and preach instead of teach.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Surely that would make all of your dreams come true, all of <I>our</I>
+dreams, for I have dreamed too&mdash;that this might come.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Sometimes as I lie here, I shut my eyes, and I seem to see you in that
+circle of young pines, and I pretend that I am listening; that you are
+saying things to me, as you say them to those poor people in the
+pines&mdash;and now and then I can make myself believe that you have really
+spoken, that your voice has reached across the miles.  And so I have
+your little sermons all to myself&mdash;out here at sea, with all the blue
+distance between us&mdash;but I listen, listen&mdash;just the same.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In the Fog.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Out of the sunshine of yesterday came the heavy mists of to-day.  The
+sea slips under us in silver swells.  Everybody is wrapped to the chin,
+and Porter has just stopped to ask me if I want something hot sent up.
+I told him "no," and sent him on to Leila.  I like this still world,
+and the gray ghosts about the deck.  Delilah has just sailed by in a
+beautiful smoke-colored costume&mdash;with her inevitable knot of
+heliotrope&mdash;a phantom lady, like a lovely dream.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Did I tell you that a very distinguished and much titled gentleman
+wants to marry Delilah, and that he is waiting now for her answer?
+Porter thinks she will say "yes."  But Leila and I don't.  We are sure
+that she will find her fate in Colin.  He dominates her; he dives
+beneath the surface and brings up the real Delilah, not the cool,
+calculating Delilah that we once knew, but the lovely, gracious lady
+that she now is.  It is as if he had put a new soul inside of the
+worldly shell that was once Delilah.  Yet there is never a sign between
+them of anything but good comradeship.  Grace says that Colin is
+following the fashionable policy of watchful waiting&mdash;but I'm not sure.
+I fancy that they will both wake up suddenly to what they feel, and
+then it will be quite wonderful to see them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter doesn't believe in the waking-up process.  He says that love is
+a growth.  That people must know each other for years and years, so
+that each can understand the faults and virtues of the other.  But to
+me it seems that love is a flame, illumining everything in a moment.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter came while I was writing that&mdash;and made me walk with him up and
+down, up and down.  He was afraid I might get chilled.  Of course he
+means to be kind, but I don't like to have him tell me that I must
+"make an effort"&mdash;it gives me a sort of Mrs. Dombey feeling.  I don't
+wonder that she just curled up and died to get rid of the trouble of
+living.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I knew while I walked with Porter that people were wondering who I
+was&mdash;in my long black coat, with my hair all blown about.  I fancy that
+they won't link my name, sentimentally, with the Knight of the Auburn
+Crest.  Beside Grace and Delilah I look like a little country girl.
+But I don't care&mdash;my thick coat is comfortable, and my little soft hat
+stays on my head, which is all one needs, isn't it?  But as I write
+this I wonder where the girl is who used to like pretty clothes.  Do
+you remember the dress I wore at Constance's wedding?  I was thinking
+to-day of it&mdash;and of Leila hippity-hopping up the stairs in her one
+pink slipper.  Oh, how far away those days seem&mdash;and how strong I
+felt&mdash;and how ready I was to face the world, and now I just want to
+crawl into a corner and watch other people live.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Leila is much braver than I.  She takes a little walk every morning
+with her father, and another walk every afternoon with Porter&mdash;and she
+is always talking to lonesome people and sick people; and all the while
+she wears a little faint shining smile, like an angel's.  Yet I used to
+be quite scornful of Leila, even while I loved her.  I thought she was
+so sweetly and weakly feminine; yet she is steering her little ship
+through stormy waters, while I have lost my rudder and compass, and all
+the other things that a mariner needs in a time of storm.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+<I>Before the storm.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The fog still hangs over us, and we seem to ride on the surface of a
+dead sea.  Last night there was no moon and to-day Aunt Frances has not
+appeared.  Even Delilah seems to feel depressed by the silence and the
+stillness&mdash;not a sound but the beat of the engines and the hoarse hoot
+of the horns.  This paper is damp as I write upon it, and blots the
+ink, but&mdash;I sha'n't rewrite it, because the blots will make you see me
+sitting here, with drops of moisture clinging to my coat and to my
+little hat, and making my hair curl up in a way that it never does in
+dry weather.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I wonder, if you were here, if you would seem a ghost like all the
+others.  Nothing is real but my thoughts of the things that used to be.
+I can't believe that I am on my way to London, and that I am going to
+live with Constance, and go sightseeing with Aunt Frances and Grace,
+and give up my plans for the&mdash;Great Adventure.  Aunt Isabelle sat
+beside me this morning, and we talked about it.  She will stay with
+Aunt Frances and Grace, and we shall see each other every day.  I
+couldn't quite get along at all if it were not for Aunt Isabelle&mdash;she
+is such a mother-person, and she doesn't make me feel, as the rest of
+them do, that I must be brave and courageous.  She just pats my hand
+and says, "It's going to be all right, Mary dear&mdash;it is going to be all
+right," and presently I begin to feel that it is; she has such a
+fashion of ignoring the troublesome things of this world, and simply
+looking ahead to the next.  She told me once that heaven would mean to
+her, first of all, a place of beautiful sounds&mdash;and second it would
+mean freedom.  You see she has always been dominated by Aunt Frances,
+poor thing.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Do you remember how I used to talk of freedom?  But now I'm to be a
+bird in a cage.  It will be a gilded cage, of course.  Even Grace says
+that Constance's home is charming&mdash;great lovely rooms and massive
+furniture; and when we begin to go again into society, I am to be
+introduced to lots of grand folk, and perhaps presented.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I am to forget that I ever worked in a grubby government
+office&mdash;indeed I am to forget that I ever worked at all.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I am to forget all of my dreams.  I am to change from the Mary
+Ballard who wanted to do things to the Mary Ballard who wants them done
+for her.  Perhaps when you see me again I shall be nice and clinging
+and as sweetly feminine as you used to want me to be&mdash;Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The mists have cleared, and there's a cloud on the horizon&mdash;I can hear
+people saying that it means a storm.  Shall I be afraid?  I wonder.  Do
+you remember the storm that came that day in the garden and drove us
+in?  I wonder if we shall ever be together again in the dear old garden?
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>After the storm.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Last night the storm waked us.  It was a dreadful storm, with the wind
+booming, and the sea all whipped up into a whirlpool.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But I wasn't frightened, although everybody was awake, and there was a
+feeling that something might happen.  I asked Porter to take me on
+deck, but he said that no one was allowed, and so we just curled up on
+chairs and sofas and waited either for the storm to end or for the ship
+to sink.  If you've ever been in a storm at sea, you know the
+feeling&mdash;that the next minute may bring calm and safety, or terror and
+death.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Porter had tucked a rug around me, and I lay there, looking at the
+others, wondering whether if an accident happened Delilah would face
+death as gracefully as she faces everything else.  Leila was very white
+and shivery and clung to her father; it is at such times that she seems
+such a child.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Aunt Frances was fussy and blamed everybody from the captain down to
+Aunt Isabelle&mdash;as if they could control the warring elements.  Surely
+it is a case of the "ruling passion."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+But while I am writing these things, I am putting off, and putting off
+and putting off the story of what happened after the storm&mdash;not because
+I dread to tell it, but because I don't know quite how to tell it.  It
+involves such intimate things&mdash;yet it makes all things clear, it makes
+everything so beautifully clear, Roger Poole.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was after the wind died down a bit that I made Porter take me up on
+deck.  The moon was flying through the ragged clouds, and the water was
+a wild sweep of black and white.  It was all quite spectral and
+terrifying and I shivered.  And then Porter said; "Mary, we'd better go
+down."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I said, "It wasn't fear that made me shiver, Porter.  It was just
+the thought that living is worse than dying."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He dropped my arm and looked down at me.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, "what's the matter with you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't know," I said.  "It is just that my courage is all gone&mdash;I
+can't face things."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I don't know&mdash;I've lost my grip, Porter."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And then he asked a question.  "Is it because of Barry, Mary?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Some of it."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And the rest?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I can't tell you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+We walked for a long time after that, and I was holding all the time
+tight to his arm&mdash;for it wasn't easy to walk with that sea on&mdash;when
+suddenly he laid his hand over mine.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Mary," he said, "I've got to tell you.  I can't keep it back and
+feel&mdash;honest.  I don't know whether you want Roger Poole in your
+life&mdash;I don't know whether you care.  But I want you to be happy.  And
+it was I who sent him away from you."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now, Roger Poole, what can I say?  What can <I>any</I> woman say?  I
+only know this, that as I write this the sun shines over a blue sea,
+and that the world is&mdash;different.  There are still things in my heart
+which hurt&mdash;but there are things, too, which make it sing!
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+MARY.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+When Mary Ballard came on deck on the morning after the storm,
+everybody stared.  Where was the girl of yesterday&mdash;the frail white
+girl who had moped so listlessly in her chair, scribbling on little
+bits of paper?  Here was a fair young beauty, with her head up, a clear
+light shining in her gray eyes&mdash;a faint flush on her cheeks.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin Quale, meeting her, flickered his lashes and smiled: "Is this
+what the storm did to you?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This and this."  He touched his cheeks and his eyes.  "To-day, if I
+painted you, I should have to put pink on my palette&mdash;yesterday I
+should have needed only black and white."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary smiled back at him.  "Do you interpret things always through the
+medium of your brush?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Why not?  Life is just that&mdash;a little color more or less, and it all
+depends on the hand of the artist."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"What a wonderful palette He has!"  Her eyes swept the sea and the sky.
+"This morning the world is all gold and blue."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"And yesterday it was gray."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary flashed a glance at him.  His voice had changed.  Delilah was
+coming toward them.  "There's material I like to work with," he said,
+"there's something more than paint or canvas&mdash;living, breathing beauty."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"He's saying things about you," Mary said, as Delilah joined them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Delilah, coloring faintly, cast down her eyes.  "I'm afraid of him,
+Mary," she said.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Colin laughed.  "You're not afraid of any one."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes, I am.  You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion.
+You are always reading me like a book."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely
+illustrations."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious
+eyes.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to
+Porter Bigelow it was no miracle.  Nothing could have more completely
+rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Her attitude toward him was irreproachable.  She was kinder, indeed,
+than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims
+upon her.  She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for
+something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing
+could ever make up.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and
+more and more with Leila&mdash;Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed
+him with such sweet and clinging dependence&mdash;Leila who hung upon his
+advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to
+help him.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Thus they came in due time to London.  And when Leila and her father
+left for the German baths, Porter went with them.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you.  You never
+could, and you never would, and now you never will."
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby,
+days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual
+grief.  The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of
+them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed,
+winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making
+herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world
+seemed to revolve about her.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across
+the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and
+Gordon.  Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and
+laid it beside her plate.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Gordon finished his breakfast, kissed his wife, and went away.
+Constance, looking over her mail, read bits of news to Mary.  Mary, in
+return, read bits of news to Constance.  But the blue envelope by her
+plate lay untouched, until, catching her sister's eye, she flushed.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Constance," she said, "it is from Roger Poole."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Oh, Mary, and was that why Porter went away?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Yes."  It came almost defiantly.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+For a moment the young matron hesitated, then she held out her arms.
+"Dearest girl," she said, "we want you to be happy."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Mary, with eyes shining, came straight to that loving embrace.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"I am going to be happy," she said, almost breathlessly, "and perhaps
+my way of being happy won't be yours, Con, darling.  But what
+difference does it make, so long as we are both&mdash;happy?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+The letter, read at last in the shelter of her own room, was not long.
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>Among the Pines.</I>
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Even now I can't quite believe that your letter is true&mdash;I have read it
+and reread it&mdash;again and again, reading into it each time new meanings,
+new hope.  And to-night it lies on my desk, a precious document,
+tempting me to say things which perhaps I should not say&mdash;tempting me
+to plead for that which perhaps I should not ask.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Dear woman&mdash;what have I to offer you?  Just a home down here among the
+sand-hills&mdash;a little church that will soon stand in a circle of young
+pines, a life of work in a little rectory near the little church&mdash;for
+your dreams and mine are to come true, and the little church will be
+built within a year.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet, I have a garden.  A garden of souls.  Will you come into it?  And
+make it bloom, as you have made my life bloom?  All that I am you have
+made me.  When I sat in the Tower Rooms hopeless, you gave me hope.
+When I lost faith in myself, it shone in your eyes.  When I saw your
+brave young courage, my courage came back to me.  It was you who told
+me that I had a message to deliver.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I am delivering the message&mdash;and somehow I cannot feel that it is a
+little thing to offer, when I ask you to share in this, my work.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Other men can offer you a castle&mdash;other men can give to you a life of
+ease.  I can bring to you a life in which we shall give ourselves to
+each other and to the world.  I can give you love that is equal to any
+man's.  I can give you a future which will make you forget the past.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Not to every woman would I dare offer what I have to give&mdash;-but you are
+different from other women.  From the night when you first met me
+frankly with your brave young head up and your eyes shining, I have
+known that you were different from the rest&mdash;a woman braver and
+stronger, a woman asking more of life than softness.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And now, will you fight with me, shoulder to shoulder?  And win?
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Somehow I feel that you will say "Yes."  Is that the right attitude for
+a lover?  But surely I can see a little way into your heart.  Your
+letter let me see.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+If I seem over-confident, forgive me.  But I know what I want for
+myself.  I know what I want for you.  I am not the Roger Poole of the
+Tower Rooms, beaten and broken.  I am Roger Poole of the Garden,
+marching triumphantly in tune with the universe.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+As I write, I have a vision upon me of a little white house not far
+from the little white church in the circle of young pines&mdash;a house with
+orchards sweeping up all pink behind it in April, and with violets in
+the borders of the walk in January, and with roses from May until
+December.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+And I can see you in that little house.  I shall see you in it until
+you say something which will destroy that vision.  But you won't
+destroy it.  Surely some day you will hear the mocking-birds sing in
+the moonlight&mdash;as I am hearing them, alone, to-night.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+I need you, I want you, and I hope that it is not a selfish cry.  For
+your letter has told me that you, too, are wanting&mdash;what?  Is it Love,
+Mary dear, and Life?
+</P>
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+ROGER.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR>
+
+<A NAME="chap26"></A>
+<H3 ALIGN="center">
+CHAPTER XXVI
+</H3>
+
+
+<P CLASS="noindent">
+<I>In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight.</I>
+</P>
+
+<BR>
+
+<P>
+Sweeping through a country of white sand and of charred trees run hard
+clay highways.  When motor cars from the cities and health resorts
+began to invade the pines, it was found that the old wagon trails were
+inadequate; hence there followed experiments which resulted in
+intersecting orange-colored roads, throughout the desert-like expanse.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was on a day in April that over the road which led up toward the
+hills there sailed the snowy-white canopy of one of the strange
+land-craft of that region&mdash;a schooner-wagon drawn by two fat mules who
+walked at a leisurely but steady pace, seemingly without guidance from
+any hand.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Yet that, beneath the hooded cover, there was a directing power, was
+demonstrated, as the mules turned suddenly from the hot road to a wagon
+path beneath the shelter of the pines.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+It was strewn thick with brown needles, and the sharp hoofs of the
+little animals made no sound.  Deeper and deeper they went into the
+wood, until the swinging craft and its clumsy steeds seemed to swim in
+a sea of emerald light.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+On and on breasting waves of golden gloom, where the sunlight sifted
+in, to anchor at last in a still space where the great trees sang
+overhead.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then from beneath the canopy emerged a man in khaki.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+He took off his hat, and stood for a moment looking up at the great
+trees, then he called softly, "Mary."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She came to the back of the wagon and he lifted her down.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"This is my cathedral," he said; "it is the place of the biggest pines."
+</P>
+
+<P>
+She leaned against him and looked up.  His arm was about her.  She wore
+a thin silk blouse and a white skirt.  Her soft fair hair was blown
+against his cheek.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Roger," she said, "was there ever such a honeymoon?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+"Was there ever such a woman&mdash;such a wife?"
+</P>
+
+<P>
+After that they were silent.  There was no need for words.  But
+presently he spread a rug for her, and built their fire, and they had
+their lunch.  The mules ate comfortably in the shade, and rested
+throughout the long hot hours of the afternoon.
+</P>
+
+<P>
+Then once more the strange craft sailed on.  On and on over miles of
+orange roadway, passing now and then an orchard, flaunting the
+rose-color of its peach trees against the dun background of sand;
+passing again between drifts of dogwood, which shone like snow beneath
+the slanting rays of the sun&mdash;sailing on and on until the sun went
+down.  Then came the shadowy twilight, with the stars coming out in the
+warm dusk&mdash;then the moonlight&mdash;and the mocking-birds singing.
+</P>
+
+<BR><BR><BR><BR>
+<hr class="full" noshade>
+
+<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***</p>
+<p>******* This file should be named 17938-h.txt or 17938-h.zip *******</p>
+<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br />
+<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938">http://www.gutenberg.org/1/7/9/3/17938</a></p>
+<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.</p>
+
+<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.</p>
+
+
+
+<pre>
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
+<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license)</a>.
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS,' WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation web page at http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
+809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
+business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
+information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
+page at http://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit: http://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Each eBook is in a subdirectory of the same number as the eBook's
+eBook number, often in several formats including plain vanilla ASCII,
+compressed (zipped), HTML and others.
+
+Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks replace the old file and take over
+the old filename and etext number.  The replaced older file is renamed.
+VERSIONS based on separate sources are treated as new eBooks receiving
+new filenames and etext numbers.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org">http://www.gutenberg.org</a>
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
+EBooks posted prior to November 2003, with eBook numbers BELOW #10000,
+are filed in directories based on their release date.  If you want to
+download any of these eBooks directly, rather than using the regular
+search system you may utilize the following addresses and just
+download by the etext year.
+
+<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext06/">http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext06/</a>
+
+    (Or /etext 05, 04, 03, 02, 01, 00, 99,
+     98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90)
+
+EBooks posted since November 2003, with etext numbers OVER #10000, are
+filed in a different way.  The year of a release date is no longer part
+of the directory path.  The path is based on the etext number (which is
+identical to the filename).  The path to the file is made up of single
+digits corresponding to all but the last digit in the filename.  For
+example an eBook of filename 10234 would be found at:
+
+http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/2/3/10234
+
+or filename 24689 would be found at:
+http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/4/6/8/24689
+
+An alternative method of locating eBooks:
+<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL">http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/GUTINDEX.ALL</a>
+
+*** END: FULL LICENSE ***
+</pre>
+</body>
+</html>
diff --git a/17938-h/images/img-112.jpg b/17938-h/images/img-112.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..0fd6565
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h/images/img-112.jpg
diff --git a/17938-h/images/img-240.jpg b/17938-h/images/img-240.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fddfa38
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h/images/img-240.jpg
diff --git a/17938-h/images/img-360.jpg b/17938-h/images/img-360.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..1f8bac0
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h/images/img-360.jpg
diff --git a/17938-h/images/img-front.jpg b/17938-h/images/img-front.jpg
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..28fcce7
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938-h/images/img-front.jpg
diff --git a/17938.txt b/17938.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..9279e27
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11516 @@
+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Contrary Mary, by Temple Bailey, Illustrated
+by Charles S. Corson
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Contrary Mary
+
+
+Author: Temple Bailey
+
+
+
+Release Date: March 6, 2006  [eBook #17938]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***
+
+
+E-text prepared by Al Haines
+
+
+
+Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
+      file which includes the original illustrations.
+      See 17938-h.htm or 17938-h.zip:
+      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938/17938-h/17938-h.htm)
+      or
+      (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938/17938-h.zip)
+
+
+
+
+
+CONTRARY MARY
+
+by
+
+TEMPLE BAILEY
+
+Author of
+Glory of Youth
+
+Illustrations by Charles S. Corson
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+[Frontispiece: She flashed a quick glance at him.]
+
+
+
+
+New York
+Grosset & Dunlap
+Publishers
+Copyright
+1914 by
+The Penn Publishing Company
+  First printing, December, 1914
+  Second printing, February, 1915
+  Third printing, March, 1915
+  Fourth printing, March, 1915
+  Fifth printing, April, 1915
+  Sixth printing, July, 1915
+  Seventh printing, November, 1915
+
+
+
+
+To My Sister
+
+
+
+
+Contents
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face with Old Friends.
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason
+for Renting a Gentleman's Library.
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of this Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances with the Rest.
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets that There is Any One Else in the House.
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice; and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part.
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms, and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads.
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and is
+Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon the
+Stairs.
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place; and
+in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone.
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress;
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way.
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower.
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book.
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens; and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+In Which Mary Writes from the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+from Among the Pines.
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which a
+March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For; and
+in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red.
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World; and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy.
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes, and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary.
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreamt.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life, and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas.
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight.
+
+
+
+
+Illustrations
+
+
+She flashed a quick glance at him . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
+
+"What have I done?"
+
+"You don't know what you are doing."
+
+"Again I question your right."
+
+
+
+
+Contrary Mary
+
+
+CHAPTER I
+
+_In Which Silken Ladies Ascend One Stairway, and a Lonely Wayfarer
+Ascends Another and Comes Face to Face With Old Friends._
+
+
+The big house, standing on a high hill which overlooked the city,
+showed in the moonlight the grotesque outlines of a composite
+architecture.  Originally it had been a square substantial edifice of
+Colonial simplicity.  A later and less restrained taste had aimed at a
+castellated effect, and certain peaks and turrets had been added.
+Three of these turrets were excrescences stuck on, evidently, with an
+idea of adornment.  The fourth tower, however, rounded out and enlarged
+a room on the third floor.  This room was one of a suite, and the rooms
+were known as the Tower Rooms, and were held by those who had occupied
+them to be the most desirable in the barn-like building.
+
+To-night the house had taken on an unwonted aspect of festivity.  Its
+spaciousness was checkered by golden-lighted windows.  Delivery wagons
+and automobiles came and went, some discharging loads of deliciousness
+at the back door, others discharging loads of loveliness at the front.
+
+Following in the wake of one of the front door loads of fluttering
+femininity came a somewhat somber pedestrian.  His steps lagged a
+little, so that when the big door opened, he was still at the foot of
+the terrace which led up to it.  He waited until the door was shut
+before he again advanced.  In the glimpse that he thus had of the
+interior, he was aware of a sort of pink effulgence, and in that
+shining light, lapped by it, and borne up, as it were, by it toward the
+wide stairway, he saw slender girls in faint-hued frocks--a shimmering
+celestial company.
+
+As he reached the top of the terrace the door again flew open, and he
+gave a somewhat hesitating reason for his intrusion.
+
+"I was told to ask for Miss Ballard--Miss Mary Ballard."
+
+It seemed that he was expected, and that the guardian of the doorway
+understood the difference between his business and that of the
+celestial beings who had preceded him.
+
+He was shown into a small room at the left of the entrance.  It was
+somewhat bare, with a few law books and a big old-fashioned desk.  He
+judged that the room might have been put to office uses, but to-night
+the desk was heaped with open boxes, and odd pieces of furniture were
+crowded together, so that there was left only a small oasis of cleared
+space.  On the one chair in this oasis, the somber gentleman seated
+himself.
+
+He had a fancy, as he sat there waiting, that neither he nor this room
+were in accord with the things that were going on in the big house.
+Outside of the closed door the radiant guests were still ascending the
+stairway on shining wings of light.  He could hear the music of their
+laughter, and the deeper note of men's voices, rising and growing
+fainter in a sort of transcendent harmony.
+
+When the door was finally opened, it was done quickly and was shut
+quickly, and the girl who had entered laughed breathlessly as she
+turned to him.
+
+"Oh, you must forgive me--I've kept you waiting?"
+
+If their meeting had been in Sherwood forest, he would have known her
+at once for a good comrade; if he had met her in the Garden of
+Biaucaire, he would have known her at once for more than that.  But,
+being neither a hero of ballad nor of old romance, he knew only that
+here was a girl different from the silken ladies who had ascended the
+stairs.  Here was an air almost of frank boyishness, a smile of
+pleasant friendliness, with just enough of flushing cheek to show
+womanliness and warm blood.
+
+Even her dress was different.  It was simple almost to the point of
+plainness.  Its charm lay in its glimmering glistening sheen, like the
+inside of a shell.  Its draperies were caught up to show slender feet
+in low-heeled slippers.  A quaint cap of silver tissue held closely the
+waves of thick fair hair.  Her eyes were like the sea in a storm--deep
+gray with a glint of green.
+
+These things did not come to him at once.  He was to observe them as
+she made her explanation, and as he followed her to the Tower Rooms.
+But first he had to set himself straight with her, so he said: "I was
+sorry to interrupt you.  But you said--seven?"
+
+"Yes.  It was the only time that the rooms could be seen.  My sister
+and I occupy them--and Constance is to be married--to-night."
+
+This, then, was the reason for the effulgence and the silken ladies.
+It was the reason, too, for the loveliness of her dress.
+
+"I am going to take you this way."  She preceded him through a narrow
+passage to a flight of steps leading up into the darkness.  "These
+stairs are not often used, but we shall escape the crowds in the other
+hall."
+
+Her voice was lost as she made an abrupt turn, but, feeling his way, he
+followed her.
+
+Up and up until they came to a third-floor landing, where she stopped
+him to say, "I must be sure no one is here.  Will you wait until I see?"
+
+She came back, presently, to announce that the coast was clear, and
+thus they entered the room which had been enlarged and rounded out by
+the fourth tower.
+
+It was a big room, ceiled and finished in dark oak, The furniture was
+roomy and comfortable and of worn red leather.  A strong square table
+held a copper lamp with a low spreading shade.  There was a fireplace,
+and on the mantel above it a bust or two.
+
+But it was not these things which at once caught the attention of Roger
+Poole.
+
+Lining the walls were old books in stout binding, new books in cloth
+and fine leather--the poets, the philosophers, the seers of all ages.
+As his eyes swept the shelves, he knew that here was the living,
+breathing collection of a true book-lover--not a musty, fusty
+aggregation brought together through mere pride of intellect.  The
+owner of this library had counted the heart-beats of the world.
+
+"This is the sitting-room," his guide was telling him, "and the bedroom
+and bath open out from it."  She had opened a connecting door.  "This
+room is awfully torn up.  But we have just finished dressing Constance.
+She is down-stairs now in the Sanctum.  We'll pack her trunks to-morrow
+and send them, and then if you should care to take the rooms, we can
+put back the bedroom furniture that father had.  He used this suite,
+and brought his books up after mother died."
+
+He halted on the threshold of that inner room.  If the old house below
+had seemed filled with rosy effulgence, this was the heart of the rose.
+Two small white beds were side by side in an alcove.  Their covers were
+of pink overlaid with lace, and the chintz of the big couch and chairs
+reflected the same enchanting hue.  With all the color, however, there
+was the freshness of simplicity.  Two tall glass candlesticks on the
+dressing table, a few photographs in silver and ivory frames--these
+were the only ornaments.
+
+Yet everywhere was lovely confusion--delicate things were thrown
+half-way into open trunks, filmy fabrics floated from unexpected
+places, small slippers were held by receptacles never designed for
+shoes, radiant hats bloomed in boxes.
+
+On a chair lay a bridesmaid's bunch of roses.  This bunch Mary Ballard
+picked up as she passed, and it was over the top of it that she asked,
+with some diffidence, "Do you think you'd care to take the rooms?"
+
+Did he?  Did the Peri outside the gates yearn to enter?  Here within
+his reach was that from which he had been cut off for five years.  Five
+years in boarding-houses and cheap hotels, and now the chance to live
+again--as he had once lived!
+
+"I do want them--awfully--but the price named in your letter seems
+ridiculously small----"
+
+"But you see it is all I shall need," she was as blissfully
+unbusinesslike as he.  "I want to add a certain amount to my income, so
+I ask you to pay that," she smiled, and with increasing diffidence
+demanded, "Could you make up your mind--now?  It is important that I
+should know--to-night."
+
+She saw the question in his eyes and answered it, "You see--my family
+have no idea that I am doing this.  If they knew, they wouldn't want me
+to rent the rooms--but the house is mine---I shall do as I please."
+
+She seemed to fling it at him, defiantly.
+
+"And you want me to be accessory to your--crime."
+
+She gave him a startled glance.  "Oh, do you look at it--that way?
+Please don't.  Not if you like them."
+
+For a moment, only, he wavered.  There was something distinctly unusual
+in acquiring a vine and fig tree in this fashion.  But then her
+advertisement had been unusual--it was that which had attracted him,
+and had piqued his interest so that he had answered it.
+
+And the books!  As he looked back into the big room, the rows of
+volumes seemed to smile at him with the faces of old friends.
+
+Lonely, longing for a haven after the storms which had beaten him, what
+better could he find than this?
+
+As for the family of Mary Ballard, what had he to do with it?  His
+business was with Mary Ballard herself, with her frank laugh and her
+friendliness--and her arms full of roses!
+
+"I like them so much that I shall consider myself most fortunate to get
+them."
+
+"Oh, really?"  She hesitated and held out her hand to him.  "You don't
+know how you have helped me out--you don't know how you have helped
+me----"
+
+Again she saw a question in his eyes, but this time she did not answer
+it.  She turned and went into the other room, drawing back the curtains
+of the deep windows of the round tower.
+
+"I haven't shown you the best of all," she said.  Beneath them lay the
+lovely city, starred with its golden lights.  From east to west the
+shadowy dimness of the Mall, beyond the shadows, a line of river,
+silver under the moonlight.  A clock tower or two showed yellow faces;
+the great public buildings were clear-cut like cardboard.
+
+Roger drew a deep breath.  "If there were nothing else," he said, "I
+should take the rooms for this."
+
+And now from the lower hall came the clamor of voices.
+
+"_Mary!  Mary!_"
+
+"I must not keep you," he said at once.
+
+"_Mary!_"
+
+Poised for flight, she asked, "Can you find your way down alone?  I'll
+go by the front stairs and head them off."
+
+"_Mary----!_"
+
+With a last flashing glance she was gone, and as he groped his way down
+through the darkness, it came to him as an amazing revelation that she
+had taken his coming as a thing to be thankful for, and it had been so
+many years since a door had been flung wide to welcome him.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER II
+
+_In Which Rose-Leaves and Old Slippers Speed a Happy Pair; and in Which
+Sweet and Twenty Speaks a New and Modern Language, and Gives a Reason for
+Renting a Gentleman's Library._
+
+
+In spite of the fact that Mary Ballard had seemed to Roger Poole like a
+white-winged angel, she was not looked upon by the family as a beauty.
+It was Constance who was the "pretty one," and tonight as she stood in
+her bridal robes, gazing up at her sister who was descending the stairs,
+she was more than pretty.  Her tender face was illumined by an inner
+radiance.  She was two years older than Mary, but more slender, and her
+coloring was more strongly emphasized.  Her eyes were blue and her hair
+was gold, as against the gray-green and dull fairness of Mary's hair.
+She seemed surrounded, too, by a sort of feminine _aura_, so that one
+knew at a glance that here was a woman who would love her home, her
+husband, her children; who would lean upon masculine protection, and
+suffer from masculine neglect.
+
+Of Mary Ballard these things could not be said at once.  In spite of her
+simplicity and frankness, there was about her a baffling atmosphere.  She
+was like a still pool with the depths as yet unsounded, an uncharted
+sea--with its mystery of undiscovered countries.
+
+The contrast between the sisters had never been more marked than when
+Mary, leaning over the stair-rail, answered the breathless, "Dearest,
+where have you been?" with her calm:
+
+"There's plenty of time, Constance."
+
+And Constance, soothed as always by her sister's tranquillity, repeated
+Mary's words for the benefit of a ponderously anxious Personage in amber
+satin.
+
+"There's plenty of time, Aunt Frances."
+
+That Aunt Frances _was_ a Personage was made apparent by certain exterior
+evidences.  One knew it by the set of her fine shoulders, the carriage of
+her head, by the diamond-studded lorgnette, by the string of pearls about
+her neck, by the osprey in her white hair, by the golden buckles on her
+shoes.
+
+"It is five minutes to eight," said Aunt Frances, "and Gordon is waiting
+down-stairs with his best man, the chorus is freezing on the side porch,
+and _everybody_ has arrived.  I don't see _why_ you are waiting----"
+
+"We are waiting for it to be eight o'clock, Aunt Frances," said Mary.
+"At just eight, I start down in front of Constance, and if you don't
+hurry you and Aunt Isabelle won't be there ahead of me."
+
+The amber train slipped and glimmered down the polished steps, and the
+golden buckles gleamed as Mrs. Clendenning, panting a little and with a
+sense of outrage that her nervous anxiety of the preceding moment had
+been for naught, made her way to the drawing-room, where the guests were
+assembled.
+
+Aunt Isabelle followed, gently smiling.  Aunt Isabelle was to Aunt
+Frances as moonlight unto sunlight.  Aunt Frances was married, Aunt
+Isabelle was single; Aunt Frances wore amber, Aunt Isabelle silver gray;
+Aunt Frances held up her head like a queen, Aunt Isabelle dropped hers
+deprecatingly; Aunt Frances' quick ears caught the whispers of admiration
+that followed her, Aunt Isabelle's ears were closed forever to all the
+music of the universe.
+
+No sooner had the two aunts taken their places to the left of a floral
+bower than there was heard without the chanted wedding chorus, from a
+side door stepped the clergyman and the bridegroom and his best man; then
+from the hall came the little procession with Mary in the lead and
+Constance leaning on the arm of her brother Barry.
+
+They were much alike, this brother and sister.  More alike than Mary and
+Constance.  Barry had the same gold in his hair, and blue in his eyes,
+and, while one dared not hint it, in the face of his broad-shouldered
+strength, there was an almost feminine charm in the grace of his manner
+and the languor of his movements.
+
+There were no bridesmaids, except Mary, but four pretty girls held the
+broad white ribbons which marked an aisle down the length of the rooms.
+These girls wore pink with close caps of old lace.  Only one of them had
+dark hair, and it was the dark-haired one, who, standing very still
+throughout the ceremony, with the ribbon caught up to her in lustrous
+festoons, never took her eyes from Barry Ballard's face.
+
+And when, after the ceremony, the bride turned to greet her friends, the
+dark-haired girl moved forward to where Barry stood, a little apart from
+the wedding group.
+
+"Doesn't it seem strange?" she said to him with quick-drawn breath.
+
+He smiled down at her.  "What?"
+
+"That a few words should make such a difference?"
+
+"Yes.  A minute ago she belonged to us.  Now she's Gordon's."
+
+"And he's taking her to England?"
+
+"Yes.  But not for long.  When he gets the branch office started over
+there, they'll come back, and he'll take his father's place in the
+business here, and let the old man retire."
+
+She was not listening.  "Barry," she interrupted, "what will Mary do?
+She can't live here alone--and she'll miss Constance."
+
+"Oh, Aunt Frances has fixed that," easily; "she wants Mary to shut up the
+house and spend the winter in Nice with herself and Grace--it's a great
+chance for Mary."
+
+"But what about you, Barry?"
+
+"Me?" He shrugged his shoulders and again smiled down at her.  "I'll find
+quarters somewhere, and when I get too lonesome, I'll come over and talk
+to you, Leila."
+
+The rich color flooded her cheeks.  "Do come," she said, again with
+quick-drawn breath, then like a child who has secured its coveted
+sugar-plum, she slipped through the crowd, and down into the dining-room,
+where she found Mary taking a last survey.
+
+"Hasn't Aunt Frances done things beautifully?" Mary asked; "she insisted
+on it, Leila.  We could never have afforded the orchids and the roses;
+and the ices are charming--pink hearts with cupids shooting at them with
+silver arrows----"
+
+"Oh, Mary," the dark-haired girl laid her flushed cheek against the arm
+of her taller friend.  "I think weddings are wonderful."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "I don't," she said after a moment's silence.  "I
+think they're horrid.  I like Gordon Richardson well enough, except when
+I think that he is stealing Constance, and then I hate him."
+
+But the bride was coming down, with all the murmuring voices behind her,
+and now the silken ladies were descending the stairs to the dining-room,
+which took up the whole lower west wing of the house and opened out upon
+an old-fashioned garden, which to-night, under a chill October moon,
+showed its rows of box and of formal cedars like sharp shadows against
+the whiteness.
+
+Into this garden came, later, Mary.  And behind her Susan Jenks.
+
+Susan Jenks was a little woman with gray hair and a coffee-colored skin.
+Being neither black nor white, she partook somewhat of the nature of both
+races.  Back of her African gentleness was an almost Yankee shrewdness,
+and the firm will which now and then degenerated into obstinacy.
+
+"There ain't no luck in a wedding without rice, Miss Mary.  These paper
+rose-leaf things that you've got in the bags are mighty pretty, but how
+are you going to know that they bring good luck?"
+
+"Aunt Frances thought they would be charming and foreign, Susan, and they
+look very real, floating off in the air.  You must stand there on the
+upper porch, and give the little bags to the guests."
+
+Susan ascended the terrace steps complainingly.  "You go right in out of
+the night, Miss Mary," she called back, "an' you with nothin' on your
+bare neck!"
+
+Mary, turning, came face to face with Gordon's best man, Porter Bigelow.
+
+"Mary," he said, impetuously, "I've been looking for you everywhere.  I
+couldn't keep my eyes off you during the service--you were--heavenly."
+
+"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
+out here.  I had to show Susan about the confetti."
+
+He drew her in and shut the door.  "They sent me to hunt for you," he
+said.  "Constance wants you.  She's going up-stairs to change.  But I
+heard just now that you are going to Nice.  Leila told me.  Mary--you
+can't go--not so far away--from me."
+
+His hand was on her arm.
+
+She shook it off with a little laugh.
+
+"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter.  And I'm not going--to Nice."
+
+"But Leila said----"
+
+Her head went up.  It was a characteristic gesture.  "It doesn't make any
+difference what _any one_ says.  I'm not going to Nice."
+
+Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
+time.  Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand.  Aunt Frances,
+arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests.  Only Aunt
+Isabelle was allowed to remain.  She could be of use, and the things
+which were to be said she could not hear.
+
+"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
+selfish--leaving you----"
+
+Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks.  "Don't worry, Con.
+I'll get along."
+
+"But you'll have to bear--things--all alone.  It isn't as if any one
+knew, and you could talk it out."
+
+"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
+anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."
+
+"Oh, Mary, he won't."
+
+"Oh, yes, he will, and you'll want him to--you'll want to turn your heart
+inside out for him to read, to say nothing of your letters."
+
+She stood up and put both of her hands on her sister's shoulders.  "But
+you mustn't tell him, Con.  No matter how much you want to, it's my
+secret and Barry's--promise me, Con----"
+
+"But, Mary, a wife can't."
+
+"Yes, she _can_ have secrets from her husband.  And this belongs to us,
+not to him.  You've married him, Con, but we haven't."
+
+Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
+could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
+time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
+sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.
+
+Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward.  "My dear," she asked, in her thin
+troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"
+
+"It's nothing, Aunt Isabelle."  Mary's tone was not loud, but Aunt
+Isabelle heard and nodded.
+
+"She's dead tired, poor dear, and wrought up.  I'll run and get the
+aromatic spirits."
+
+With Aunt Isabella out of the way, Mary set herself to repair the damage
+she had done.  "I've made you cry on your wedding day, Con, and I wanted
+you to be so happy.  Oh, tell Gordon, if you must.  But you'll find that
+he won't look at it as you and I have looked at it.  He won't make the
+excuses."
+
+"Oh, yes he will."  Constance's happiness seemed to come back to her
+suddenly in a flood of assurance.  "He's the best man in the world, Mary,
+and so kind.  It's because you don't know him that you think as you do."
+
+Mary could not quench the trust in the blue eyes.  "Of course he's good,"
+she said, "and you are going to be the happiest ever, Constance."
+
+Then Aunt Isabelle came back and found that the need for the aromatic
+spirits was over, and together the loving hands hurried Constance into
+her going away gown of dull blue and silver, with its sable trimmed wrap
+and hat.
+
+"If it hadn't been for Aunt Frances, how could I have faced Gordon's
+friends in London?" said Constance.  "Am I all right now, Mary?"
+
+"Lovely, Con, dear."
+
+But it was Aunt Isabelle's hushed voice which gave the appropriate
+phrase.  "She looks like a bluebird--for happiness."
+
+At the foot of the stairway Gordon was waiting for his bride--handsome
+and prosperous as a bridegroom should be, with a dark sleek head and
+eager eyes, and beside him Porter Bigelow, topping him by a head, and a
+red head at that.
+
+As Mary followed Constance, Porter tucked her hand under his arm.
+
+
+  "Oh, Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
+  Your eyes they are so bright,
+  That the stars grow pale, as they tell the tale
+  To the other stars at night,"
+
+he improvised under his breath.  "Oh, Mary Ballard, do you know that I am
+holding on to myself with all my might to keep from shouting to the
+crowd, 'Mary isn't going away.  Mary isn't going away.'"
+
+"Silly----"
+
+"You say that, but you don't mean it.  Mary, you can't be hard-hearted on
+such a night as this.  Say that I may stay for five minutes--ten--after
+the others have gone----"
+
+They were out on the porch now, and he had folded about her the wrap
+which she had brought down with her.  "Of course you may stay," she said,
+"but much good may it do you.  Aunt Frances is staying and General
+Dick--there's to be a family conclave in the Sanctum--but if you want to
+listen you may."
+
+And how the rose-leaves began to flutter!  Susan Jenks had handed out the
+bags, and secretly, and with much elation had leaned over the rail as
+Constance passed down the steps, and had emptied her own little offering
+of rice in the middle of the bride's blue hat!
+
+It was Barry, aided and abetted by Leila, who brought out the old
+slippers.  There were Constance's dancing slippers, high-heeled and of
+delicate hues, Mary's more individual low-heeled ones, Barry's outworn
+pumps, decorated hurriedly by Leila for the occasion with lovers' knots
+of tissue paper.
+
+And it was just as the bride waved "Good-bye" from Gordon's limousine
+that a new slipper followed the old ones, for Leila, carried away by the
+excitement, and having at the moment no other missile at hand, reached
+down, and plucking off one of her own pink sandals, hurled it with all
+her might at the moving car.  It landed on top, and Leila, with a gasp,
+realized that it was gone forever.
+
+"It serves you right."  Looking up, she met Barry's laughing eyes.
+
+She sank down on the step.  "And they were a new pair!"
+
+"Lucky that it's your birthday next week," he said.  "Do you want pink
+ones?'"
+
+"_Barry!_"
+
+Her delight was overwhelming.  "Heavens, child," he condoned her, "don't
+look as if I were the grand Mogul.  Do you know I sometimes think you are
+eight instead of eighteen?  And now, if you'll take my arm, you can
+hippity-hop into the house.  And I hope that you'll remember this, that
+if I give you pink slippers you are not to throw them away."
+
+In the hall they met Leila's father--General Wilfred Dick.  The General
+had married, in late bachelorhood, a young wife.  Leila was like her
+mother in her dark sparkling beauty and demure sweetness.  But she showed
+at times the spirit of her father--the spirit which had carried the
+General gallantly through the Civil War, and had led him after the war to
+make a success of the practice of law.  He had been for years the
+intimate friend and adviser of the Ballards, and it was at Mary's request
+that he was to stay to share in the coming conclave.
+
+He told Leila this.  "You'll have to wait, too," he said.  "And now, why
+are you hopping on one foot in that absurd fashion?"
+
+"Dad, dear, I lost my shoe----"
+
+"Her very best pink one," Barry explained; "she threw it after the bride,
+and now I've got to give her another pair for her birthday."
+
+The General's old eyes brightened as he surveyed the young pair.  This
+was as it should be, the son of his old friend and the daughter of his
+heart.
+
+He tried to look stern, however.  "Haven't I always kept you supplied
+with pink shoes and blue shoes and all the colors of the rainbow shoes!"
+he demanded.  "And why should you tax Barry?"
+
+"But, Dad, he wants to."  She looked eagerly at Barry for confirmation.
+"He wants to give them to me--for my birthday----"
+
+"Of course I do," said Barry, lightly.  "If I didn't give her slippers, I
+should have to give her something else--and far be it from me to know
+what--little--lovely--Leila--wants----"
+
+And to the tune of his chant, they hippity-hopped together up the stairs
+in a hunt for some stray shoe that should fit little-lovely-Leila's foot!
+
+A little later, the silken ladies having descended the stairway for the
+last time, Aunt Frances took her amber satin stateliness to the Sanctum.
+
+Behind her, a silver shadow, came Aunt Isabelle, and bringing up the
+rear, General Dick, and the four young people; Leila in a pair of
+mismated slippers, hippity-hopping behind with Barry, and Porter assuring
+Mary that he knew he "hadn't any business to butt in to a family party,"
+but that he was coming anyhow.
+
+The Sanctum was the front room on the second floor.  It had been the
+Little Mother's room in the days when she was still with them, and now it
+had been turned into a retreat where the young people drifted when they
+wanted quiet, or where they met for consultation and advice.  Except that
+the walnut bed and bureau had been taken out nothing had been changed,
+and their mother's books were still in the low bookcases; religious
+books, many of them, reflecting the gentle faith of the owner.  On mantel
+and table and walls were photographs of her children in long clothes and
+short, and then once more in long ones; there was Barry in wide collars
+and knickerbockers, and Constance and Mary in ermine caps and capes;
+there was Barry again in the military uniform of his preparatory school;
+Constance in her graduation frock, and Mary with her hair up for the
+first time.  There was a picture of their father on porcelain in a blue
+velvet case, and another picture of him above the mantel in an oval
+frame, with one of the Little Mother's, also in an oval frame, to flank
+it.  In the fairness of the Little Mother one traced the fairness of
+Barry and Constance.  But the fairness and features of the father were
+Mary's.
+
+Mary had never looked more like her father than now when, sitting under
+his picture, she stated her case.  What she had to say she said simply.
+But when she had finished there was the silence of astonishment.
+
+In a day, almost in an hour, little Mary had grown up!  With Constance as
+the nominal head of the household, none of them had realized that it was
+Mary's mind which had worked out the problems of making ends meet, and
+that it was Mary's strength and industry which had supplemented Susan's
+waning efforts in the care of the big house.
+
+"I want to keep the house," Mary repeated.  "I had to talk it over
+to-night, Aunt Frances, because you go back to New York in the morning,
+and I couldn't speak of it before to-night because I was afraid that some
+hint of my plan would get to Constance and she would be troubled.  She'll
+learn it later, but I didn't want her to have it on her mind now.  I want
+to stay here.  I've always lived here, and so has Barry--and while I
+appreciate your plans for me to go to Nice, I don't think it would be
+fair or right for me to leave Barry."
+
+Barry, a little embarrassed to be brought into it, said, "Oh, you needn't
+mind about me----"
+
+"But I do mind."  Mary had risen and was speaking earnestly.  "I am sure
+you must see it, Aunt Frances.  If I went with you, Barry would be left
+to--drift--and I shouldn't like to think of that.  Mother wouldn't have
+liked it, or father."  Her voice touched an almost shrill note of protest.
+
+Porter Bigelow, sitting unobtrusively in the background, was moved by her
+earnestness.  "There's something back of it," his quick mind told him;
+"she knows about--Barry----"
+
+But Barry, too, was on his feet.  "Oh, look here, Mary," he was
+expostulating, "I'm not going to have you stay at home and miss a winter
+of good times, just because I'll have to eat a few meals in a
+boarding-house.  And I sha'n't have to eat many.  When I get starved for
+home cooking, I'll hunt up my friends.  You'll take me in now and then,
+for Sunday dinner, won't you, General?--Leila says you will; and it isn't
+as if you were never coming back--Mary."
+
+"If we close the house now," Mary said, "it will mean that it won't be
+opened again.  You all know that."  Her accusing glance rested on Aunt
+Frances and the General.  "You all think it ought to be sold, but if we
+sell what will become of Susan Jenks, who nursed us and who nursed
+mother, and what shall we do with all the dear old things that were
+mother's and father's, and who will live in the dear old rooms?"  She was
+struggling for composure.  "Oh, don't you see that I--I can't go?"
+
+It was Aunt Frances' crisp voice which brought her back to calmness.
+"But, my dear, you can't afford to keep it open.  Your income with what
+Barry earns isn't any more than enough to pay your running expenses;
+there's nothing left for taxes or improvements.  I'm perfectly willing to
+finance you to the best of my ability, but I think it very foolish to
+sink any more money--here----"
+
+"I don't want you to sink it, Aunt Frances.  Constance begged me to use
+her little part of our income, but I wouldn't.  We sha'n't need it.  I've
+fixed things so that we shall have money for the taxes.  I--I have rented
+the Tower Rooms, Aunt Frances!"
+
+They stared at her stunned.  Even Leila tore her adoring eyes from
+Barry's face, and fixed them on the girl who made this astounding
+statement.
+
+"Mary," Aunt Frances gasped, "do you meant that you are going to
+take--lodgers----?"
+
+"Only one, Aunt Frances.  And he's perfectly respectable.  I advertised
+and he answered, and he gave me a bank reference."
+
+"_He_.  Mary, is it a man?"
+
+Mary nodded.  "Of course.  I should hate to have a woman fussing around.
+And I set the rent for the suite at exactly the amount I shall need to
+take me through this year, and he was satisfied."
+
+She turned and picked up a printed slip from the table.
+
+"This is the way I wrote my ad," she said, "and I had twenty-seven
+answers.  And this seemed the best----"
+
+"Twenty-seven!"  Aunt Frances held out her hand.  "Will you let me see
+what you wrote to get such remarkable results?"
+
+Mary handed it to her, and through the diamond-studded lorgnette Aunt
+Frances read:
+
+"To let: Suite of two rooms and bath; with Gentleman's Library.  House on
+top of a high hill which overlooks the city.  Exceptional advantages for
+a student or scholar."
+
+"I consider," said Mary, as Aunt Frances paused, "that the Gentleman's
+Library part was an inspiration.  It was the bait at which they all
+nibbled."
+
+The General chuckled, "She'll do.  Let her have her own way, Frances.
+She's got a head on her like a man's."
+
+Aunt Frances turned on him.  "Mary speaks what is to me a rather new
+language of independence.  And she can't stay here alone.  She _can't_.
+It isn't proper--without an older woman in the house."
+
+"But I want an older woman.  Oh, Aunt Frances, please, may I have Aunt
+Isabelle?"
+
+She had raised her voice so that Aunt Isabelle caught the name.  "What
+does she want, Frances?" asked the deaf woman; "what does she want?"
+
+"She wants you to live with her--here."  Aunt Frances was thinking
+rapidly; it wasn't such a bad plan.  It was always a problem to take
+Isabelle when she and her daughter traveled.  And if they left her in New
+York there was always the haunting fear that she might be ill, or that
+they might be criticized for leaving her.
+
+"Mary wants you to live with her," she said, "While we are abroad, would
+you like it--a winter in Washington?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle's gentle face was illumined.  "Do you really _want_ me, my
+dear?" she asked in her hushed voice.  It had been a long time since Aunt
+Isabelle had felt that she was wanted anywhere.  It seemed to her that
+since the illness which had sent her into a world of silence, that her
+presence had been endured, not coveted.
+
+Mary came over and put her arms about her.  "Will you, Aunt Isabelle?"
+she asked.  "I shall miss Constance so, and it would almost be like
+having mother to have--you----"
+
+No one knew how madly the hungry heart was beating under the silver-gray
+gown.  Aunt Isabella was only forty-eight, twelve years younger than her
+sister Frances, but she had faded and drooped, while Frances had stood up
+like a strong flower on its stem.  And the little faded drooping lady
+yearned for tenderness, was starved for it, and here was Mary in her
+youth and beauty, promising it.
+
+"I want you so much, and Barry wants you--and Susan Jenks----"
+
+She was laughing tremulously, and Aunt Isabelle laughed too, holding on
+to herself, so that she might not show in face or gesture the wildness of
+her joy.
+
+"You won't mind, will you, Frances?" she asked.
+
+Aunt Frances rose and shook out her amber skirts "I shall of course be
+much disappointed," she pitched her voice high and spoke with chill
+stateliness, "I shall be very much disappointed that neither you nor Mary
+will be with us for the winter.  And I shall have to cross alone.  But
+Grace can meet me in London.  She's going there to see Constance, and I
+shall stay for a while and start the young people socially.  I should
+think you'd want to see Constance, Mary."
+
+Mary drew a quick breath.  "I do want to see her--but I have to think
+about Barry--and for this winter, at least, my place--is here."
+
+Then from the back of the room spoke Porter Bigelow.
+
+"What's the name of your lodger?"
+
+"Roger Poole."
+
+"There are Pooles in Gramercy Park," said Aunt Frances.  "I wonder if
+he's one of them."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "He's from the South."
+
+"I should think," said Porter, slowly, "that you'd want to know something
+of him besides his bank reference before you took him into your house."
+
+"Why?" Mary demanded.
+
+"Because he might be--a thief, or a rascal," Porter spoke hotly.
+
+Over the heads of the others their eyes met.  "He is neither," said Mary.
+"I know a gentleman when I see one, Porter."
+
+Then the temper of the redhead flamed.  "Oh, do you?  Well, for my part I
+wish that you were going to Nice, Mary."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER III
+
+_In Which a Lonely Wayfarer Becomes Monarch of All He Surveys; and in
+Which One Who Might Have Been Presented as the Hero of This Tale is
+Forced, Through No Fault of His Own, to Take His Chances With the Rest._
+
+
+When Roger Poole came a week later to the big house on the hill, it was
+on a rainy day.  He carried his own bag, and was let in at the lower
+door by Susan Jenks.
+
+Her smiling brown face gave him at once a sense of homeyness.  She led
+the way through the wide hall and up the front stairs, crisp and
+competent in her big white apron and black gown.
+
+As he followed her, Roger was aware that the house had lost its
+effulgence.  The flowers were gone, and the radiance, and the stairs
+that the silken ladies had once ascended showed, at closer range,
+certain signs of shabbiness.  The carpet was old and mended.  There was
+a chilliness about the atmosphere, as if the fire, too, needed mending.
+
+But when Susan Jenks opened the door of the Tower Room, he was met by
+warmth and brightness.  Here was the light of leaping flames and of a
+low-shaded lamp.  On the table beside the lamp was a pot of pink
+hyacinths, and their fragrance made the air sweet.  The inner room was
+no longer a rosy bower, but a man's retreat, with its substantial
+furniture, its simplicity, its absence of non-essentials.  In this room
+Roger set down his bag, and Susan Jenks, hanging big towels and little
+ones in the bathroom, drawing the curtains, and coaxing the fire,
+flitted cozily back and forth for a few minutes and then withdrew.
+
+It was then that Roger surveyed his domain.  He was monarch of all of
+it.  The big chair was his to rest in, the fire was his, the low lamp,
+all the old friends in the bookcases!
+
+He went again into the inner room.  The glass candlesticks were gone
+and the photographs in their silver and ivory frames, but over the
+mantel there was a Corot print with forest vistas, and another above
+his little bedside table.  On the table was a small electric lamp with
+a green shade, a new magazine, and a little old bulging Bible with a
+limp leather binding.
+
+As he stood looking down at the little table, he was thrilled by the
+sense of safety after a storm.  Outside was the world with its harsh
+judgments.  Outside was the rain and the beating wind.  Within were
+these signs of a heart-warming hospitality.  Here was no bleak
+cleanliness, no perfunctory arrangement, but a place prepared as for an
+honored guest.
+
+Down-stairs Mary was explaining to Aunt Isabelle.  "I'll have Susan
+Jenks take some coffee to him.  He's to get his dinners in town, and
+Susan will serve his breakfast in his room.  But I thought the coffee
+to-night after the rain--might be comfortable."
+
+The two women were in the dining-room.  The table had been set for
+three, but Barry had not come.
+
+The dinner had been a simple affair--an unfashionably nourishing soup,
+a broiled fish, a salad and now the coffee.  Thus did Mary and Susan
+Jenks make income and expenses meet.  Susan's good cooking,
+supplementing Mary's gastronomic discrimination, made a feast of the
+simple fare.
+
+"What's his business, my dear?"
+
+"Mr. Poole's?  He's in the Treasury.  But I think he's studying
+something.  He seemed to be so eager for the books----"
+
+"Your father's books?"
+
+"Yes.  I left them all up there.  I even left father's old Bible.
+Somehow I felt that if any one was tired or lonely that the old Bible
+would open at the right page."
+
+"Your father was often lonely?"
+
+"Yes.  After mother's death.  And he worked too hard, and things went
+wrong with his business.  I used to slip up to his bedroom sometimes in
+the last days, and there he'd be with the old Bible on his knee, and
+mother's picture in his hand."  Mary's eyes were wet.
+
+"He loved your mother and missed her."
+
+"It was more than that.  He was afraid of the future for Constance and
+me.  He was afraid of the future for--Barry----"
+
+Susan Jenks, carrying a mahogany tray on which was a slender silver
+coffee-pot flanked by a dish of cheese and toasted biscuit, asked as
+she went through the room: "Shall I save any dinner for Mr. Barry?"
+
+"He'll be here," Mary said.  "Porter Bigelow is taking us to the
+theater, and Barry's to make the fourth."
+
+Barry was often late, but to-night it was half-past seven when he came
+rushing in.
+
+"I don't want anything to eat," he said, stopping at the door of the
+dining-room where Mary and Aunt Isabelle still waited.  "I had tea
+down-town with General Dick and Leila's crowd.  And we danced.  There
+was a girl from New York, and she was a little queen."
+
+Mary smiled at him.  To Aunt Isabella's quick eyes it seemed to be a
+smile of relief.  "Oh, then you were with the General and Leila," she
+said.
+
+"Yes.  Where did you think I was?"
+
+"Nowhere," flushing.
+
+He started up-stairs and then came back.  "I wish you'd give me credit
+for being able to keep a promise, Mary.  You know what I told Con----"
+
+"It wasn't that I didn't believe----"  Mary crossed the dining-room and
+stood in the door.
+
+"Yes, it was.  You thought I was with the old crowd.  I might as well
+go with them as to have you always thinking it."
+
+"I'm not always thinking it."
+
+"Yes, you are, too," hotly.
+
+"Barry--please----"
+
+He stood uneasily at the foot of the stairs.  "You can't understand how
+I feel.  If you were a boy----"
+
+She caught him up.  "If I were a boy?  Barry, if I were a boy I'd make
+the world move.  Oh, you | men, you have things all your own way, and
+you let it stand still----"
+
+She had raised her voice, and her words floating up and up reached the
+ears of Roger Poole, who appeared at the top of the stairway.
+
+There was a moment's startled silence, then Mary spoke.
+
+"Barry, it is Mr. Poole.  You don't know each other, do you?"
+
+The two men, one going up the stairway, the other coming down, met and
+shook hands.  Then Barry muttered something about having to run away
+and dress, and Roger and Mary were left alone.
+
+It was the first time that they had seen each other, since the night of
+the wedding.  They had arranged everything by telephone, and on the
+second short visit that Roger had made to his rooms, Susan Jenks had
+looked after him.
+
+It seemed to Roger now that, like the house, Mary had taken on a new
+and less radiant aspect.  She looked pale and tired.  Her dress of
+white with its narrow edge of dark fur made her taller and older.  Her
+fair waved hair was parted at the side and dressed compactly without
+ornament or ribbon.  He was again, however, impressed by the almost
+frank boyishness of her manner as she said:
+
+"I want you to meet Aunt Isabella.  She can't hear very well, so you'll
+have to raise your voice."
+
+As they went in together, Mary was forced to readjust certain opinions
+which she had formed of her lodger.  The other night he had been
+divorced from the dapper youths of her own set by his lack of
+up-to-dateness, his melancholy, his air of mystery.
+
+But to-night he wore a loose coat which she recognized at once as good
+style.  His dark hair which had hung in an untidy lock was brushed back
+as smoothly and as sleekly as Gordon Richardson's.  His dark eyes had a
+waked-up look.  And there was a hint of color in his clean-shaven olive
+cheeks.
+
+"I came down," he told her as he walked beside her, "to thank you for
+the coffee, for the hyacinths; for the fire, for the--welcome that my
+room gave me."
+
+"Oh, did you like it?  We were very busy up there all the morning, Aunt
+Isabelle and I and Susan Jenks."
+
+"I felt like thanking Susan Jenks for the big bath towels; they seemed
+to add the final perfect touch."
+
+She laughed and repeated his remark to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Think of his being grateful for bath towels, Aunt Isabelle."
+
+After his presentation to Aunt Isabelle, he said, smiling:
+
+"And there was another touch--the big gray pussy cat.  She was in the
+window-seat, and when I sat down to look at the lights, she tucked her
+head under my hand and sang to me."
+
+"_Pittiwitz_?  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, we left Pittiwitz up there.  She
+claims your room as hers," she explained to Roger.  "We've had her for
+years.  And she was always there with father, and then with Constance
+and me.  If she's a bother, just put her on the back stairs and she
+will come down."
+
+"But she isn't a bother.  It is very pleasant to have something alive
+to bear me company."
+
+The moment that his remark was made he was afraid that she might
+interpret it as a plea for companionship.  And he had no right----
+What earthly right had he to expect to enter this charmed circle?
+
+Susan Jenks came in with her arms full of wraps.  "Mr. Porter's
+coming," she said, "and it's eight o'clock now."
+
+"We are going out----"  Mary was interested to note that her lodger had
+taken Aunt Isabelle's wrap, and was putting her into it without
+self-consciousness.
+
+Her own wrap was of a shimmering gray-green velvet which matched her
+eyes, and there was a collar of dark fur.
+
+"It's a pretty thing," Roger said, as he held it for her.  "It's like
+the sea in a mist."
+
+She flashed a quick glance at him.  "I like that," she said in her
+straightforward way.  "It is lovely.  Aunt Frances brought it to me
+last year from Paris.  Whenever you see me wear anything that is
+particularly nice, you'll know that it came from Aunt Frances--Aunt
+Isabelle's sister.  She's the rich member of the family.  And all the
+rest of us are as poor as poverty."
+
+Outside a motor horn brayed.  Then Porter Bigelow came in--a perfectly
+put together young man, groomed, tailored, outfitted according to the
+mode.
+
+"Are you ready, Contrary Mary?" he said, then saw Roger and stopped.
+
+Porter was a gentleman, so his manner to Roger Poole showed no hint of
+what he thought of lodgers in general, and this one in particular.  He
+shook hands and said a few pleasant and perfunctory things.  Personally
+he thought the man looked down and out.  But no one could tell what
+Mary might think.  Mary's standards were those of the dreamer and the
+star gazer.  What she was seeking she would never find in a Mere Man.
+The danger lay however, in the fact that she might mistakenly hang her
+affections about the neck of some earth-bound Object and call it an
+Ideal.
+
+As for himself, in spite of his Buff-Orpington crest, and his
+cock-o'-the-walk manner, Porter was, as far Mary was concerned,
+saturated with humility.  He knew that his money, his family's social
+eminence were as nothing in her eyes.  If underneath the weight of
+these things Mary could find enough of a man in him to love that could
+be his only hope.  And that hope had held him for years to certain
+rather sedate ambitions, and had given him moral standards which had
+delighted his mother and had puzzled his father.
+
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," he said to Mary two hours
+later, in the intermission between the second and third acts of the
+musical comedy, which, for a time, had claimed their attention.  Aunt
+Isabelle, in front of the box, was smiling gently, happy in the golden
+light and the nearness of the music.  Barry was visiting Leila and the
+General who were just below, in orchestra chairs.
+
+"Whatever I am as a man, you've made me," Porter repeated, "and now, if
+you'll only let me take care of you----"
+
+Hitherto, Mary had treated his love-making lightly, but to-night she
+turned upon him her troubled eyes.  "Porter, you know I can't.  But
+there are times when I wish--I could----"
+
+"Then why not?"
+
+She stopped him with a gesture.  "It wouldn't be right.  I'm simply
+feeling lonely and lost because Constance is so far away.  But that
+isn't any reason for marrying you.  You deserve a woman who cares, who
+really cares, heart and soul.  And I can't, dear boy."
+
+"I was a fool to think you might," savagely, "a man with a red head is
+always a joke."
+
+"As if that had anything to do with it."
+
+"But it has, Mary.  You know as well as I do that when I was a
+youngster I was always Reddy Bigelow to our crowd--Reddy Bigelow with a
+carrot-head and freckles.  If I had been poor and common, life wouldn't
+have been worth living.  But mother's family and Dad's money fixed that
+for me.  And I had an allowance big enough to supply the neighborhood
+with sweets.  You were a little thing, but you were sorry for me, and I
+didn't have to buy you.  But I'd buy you now--with a house in town and
+a country house, and motor cars and lovely clothes--if I thought it
+would do any good, Mary."
+
+"You wouldn't want me that way, Porter."
+
+"I want you--any way."
+
+He stopped as the curtain went up, and darkness descended.  But
+presently out of the darkness came his whisper, "I want you--any way."
+
+
+They had supper after the play, Leila and the General joining them at
+Porter's compelling invitation.
+
+Pending the serving of the supper, Barry detained Leila for a moment in
+a palm-screened corner of the sumptuous corridor.
+
+"That girl from New York, Leila--Miss Jeliffe?  What is her first name?"
+
+"Delilah."
+
+"It isn't."
+
+Leila's light laughter mocked him.  "Yes, it is, Barry.  She calls
+herself Lilah and pronounces it as I do mine.  But she signs her
+cheques De-lilah."
+
+Barry recovered.  "Where did you meet her?"
+
+"At school.  Her father's in Congress.  They are coming to us
+to-morrow.  Dad has asked me to invite them as house guests until they
+find an apartment."
+
+"Well, she's dazzling."
+
+Leila flamed.  "I don't see how you can like--her kind----"
+
+"Little lady," he admonished, "you're jealous.  I danced four dances
+with her, and only one with your new pink slippers."
+
+She stuck out a small foot.  "They're lovely, Barry," she said,
+repentantly, "and I haven't thanked you."
+
+"Why should you?  Just look pleasant, please.  I've had enough scolding
+for one day."
+
+"Who scolded?"
+
+"Mary."
+
+Leila glanced into the dining-room, where, in her slim fairness, Mary
+was like a pale lily, among all the tulip women, and poppy women, and
+orchid women, and night-shade women of the social garden.
+
+"If Mary scolded you, you deserved it," she said, loyally.
+
+"You too?  Leila, if you don't stick to me, I might as well give up."
+
+His face was moody, brooding.  She forgot the Delilah-dancer of the
+afternoon, forgot everything except that this wonderful man-creature
+was in trouble.
+
+"Barry," she said, simply, like a child, "I'll stick to you until
+I--die."
+
+He looked down into the adoring eyes.  "I believe you would, Leila," he
+said, with a boyish catch in his voice; "you're the dearest thing on
+God's great earth!"
+
+The chilled fruit was already on the table when they went in, and it
+was followed by a chafing dish over which the General presided.
+Red-faced and rapturous, he seasoned and stirred, and as the result of
+his wizardry there was placed before them presently such plates of
+Creole crab as could not be equaled north of New Orleans.
+
+"To cook," said the General, settling himself back in his chair and
+beaming at Mary who was beside him, "one must be a poet--to me there is
+more in that dish than merely something to eat.  There's color--the red
+of tomatoes, the green of the peppers, the pale ivory of mushrooms, the
+snow white of the crab--there's atmosphere--aroma."
+
+"The difference," Mary told him, smiling, "between your cooking and
+Susan Jenks' is the difference between an epic--and a nursery rhyme.
+They're both good, but Susan's is unpremeditated art."
+
+"I take off my hat to Susan Jenks," said the General--"when her poetry
+expresses itself in waffles and fried chicken."
+
+Mary was devoting herself to the General.  Porter Bigelow who was on
+the other side of her, was devoting himself to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+Aunt Isabelle was serenely content in her new office of chaperone.
+
+"I can hear so much better in a crowd." she said, "and then there's so
+much to see."
+
+"And this is the time for the celebrities," said Porter, and wrote on
+the corner of the supper card the name of a famous Russian countess at
+the table next to them.  Beyond was the Speaker of the House; the
+British Ambassador with his fair company of ladies; the Spanish
+Ambassador at a table of darker beauties.
+
+Mary, listening to Porter's pleasant voice, was constrained to admit
+that he could be charming.  As for the freckles and "carrot-head," they
+had been succeeded by a fine if somewhat florid complexion, and the
+curled thickness of his brilliant crown gave to his head an almost
+classic beauty.
+
+As she studied him, his eyes met hers, and he surprised her by a quick
+smile of understanding.
+
+"Oh, Contrary Mary," he murmured, so that the rest could not hear,
+"what do you think of me?"
+
+She found herself blushing, "_Porter._"
+
+"You were weighing me in the balance?  Red head against my lovely
+disposition?"
+
+Before she could answer, he had turned back to Aunt Isabelle, leaving
+Mary with her cheeks hot.
+
+After supper, the young host insisted that Leila and the General should
+go home in his limousine with Barry and Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Mary and I will follow in a taxi," he said in the face of their
+protests.
+
+"Young man," demanded the twinkling General, "if I accept, will you
+look upon me in the light of an incumbrance or a benefactor?"
+
+"A benefactor, sir," said Porter, promptly, and that settled it.
+
+"And now," said Porter, as, having seen the rest of the party off, he
+took his seat beside the slim figure in the green velvet wrap, "now I
+am going to have it out with you."
+
+"But--Porter!"
+
+"I've a lot to say.  And we are going to ride around the Speedway while
+I say it."
+
+"But--it's raining."
+
+"All the better.  It will be we two and the world away, Mary."
+
+"And there isn't anything to say."
+
+"Oh, yes, there is--_oodles_."
+
+"And Aunt Isabelle will be worried."
+
+He drew the rug up around her and settled back as placidly as if the
+hands on the moon face of the clock on the post-office tower were not
+pointing to midnight.  "Aunt Isabelle has been told," he informed her,
+"that you may be a bit late.  I wrote it on the supper card, and she
+read it--and smiled."
+
+He waited in silence until they had left the avenue, and were on the
+driveway back of the Treasury which leads toward the river.
+
+"Porter, this is a wild thing to do."
+
+"I'm in a wild mood--a mood that fits in with the rain and wind, Mary.
+I'm in such a mood that if the times were different and the age more
+romantic, I would pick you up and put you on my champing steed and
+carry you off to my castle."
+
+He laughed, and for the moment she was thrilled by his masterfulness.
+"But, alas, my steed is a taxi--the age is prosaic--and you--I'm afraid
+of you, Contrary Mary."
+
+They were on the Speedway now, faintly illumined, showing a row of
+waving willow trees, spectrally outlined against a background of gray
+water.
+
+"I'm afraid of you.  I have always been.  Even when you were only ten
+and I was fifteen.  I would shake in my shoes when you looked at me,
+Mary; you were the only one then--you are the only one--now."
+
+Her hand lay on the outside of the rug.  He put his own over it.
+
+"Ever since you said to-night that you didn't care--there's been
+something singing--in my brain, and it has said, 'make her care, make
+her care.'  And I'm going to do it.  I'm not going to trouble you or
+worry you with it--and I'm going to take my chances with the rest.  But
+in the end I'm going to--win."
+
+"There aren't any others."
+
+"If there aren't there will be.  You've kept yourself protected so far
+by that little independent manner of yours, which scares men off.  But
+some day a man will come who won't be scared--and then it will be a
+fight to the finish between him--and me."
+
+"Oh, Porter, I don't want to think of marrying--not for ten million
+years."
+
+"And yet," he said prophetically, "if to-morrow you should meet some
+man who could make you think he was the Only One, you'd marry him in
+the face of all the world."
+
+"No man of that kind will ever come."
+
+"What kind?"
+
+"That will make me willing to lose the world."
+
+The rain was beating against the windows of the cab.
+
+"Porter, please.  We must go home."
+
+"Not unless you'll promise to let me prove it--to let me show that I'm
+a man--not a--boy."
+
+"You're the best friend I've ever had.  I wish you wouldn't insist on
+being something else."
+
+"But I do insist----"
+
+"And I insist upon going home.  Be good and take me."
+
+It was said with decision, and he gave the order to the driver.  And so
+they whirled at last up the avenue of the Presidents and along the
+edges of the Park, and arrived at the foot of the terrace of the big
+house.
+
+There was a light in the tower window.
+
+"That fellow is up yet," Porter said.  He had an umbrella over her, and
+was shielding her as best he could from the rain.  "I don't like to
+think of him in the house."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Oh, he sees you every day.  Talks to you every day.  And what do you
+know of him?  And I who've known you all my life must be content with
+scrappy minutes with other people around.  And anyhow--I believe I'd be
+jealous of Satan himself, Mary."
+
+They were under the porch now, and she drew away from him a bit,
+surveying him with disapproving eyes.
+
+"You aren't like yourself to-night, Porter."
+
+He put one hand on her shoulder and stood looking down at her.  "How
+can I be?  What am I going to do when I leave you, Mary, and face the
+fact that you don't care--that I'm no more to you--than that fellow up
+there in the--tower?"
+
+He straightened himself, then with the madness of his earlier mood upon
+him, he said one thing more before he left her:
+
+"Contrary Mary, if I weren't such a coward, and you weren't
+so--wonderful--I'd kiss you now--and _make_ you--care----"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IV
+
+_In Which a Little Bronze Boy Grins in the Dark; and in Which Mary
+Forgets That There is Any One Else in the House._
+
+
+Up-stairs among his books Roger Poole heard Mary come in.  With the
+curtains drawn behind him to shut out the light, he looked down into
+the streaming night, and saw Porter drive away alone.
+
+Then Mary's footstep on the stairs; her raised voice as she greeted
+Aunt Isabelle, who had waited up for her.  A door was shut, and again
+the house sank into silence.
+
+Roger turned to his books, but not to read.  The old depression was
+upon him.  In the glow of his arrival, he had been warmed by the hope
+that things could be different; here in this hospitable house he had,
+perchance, found a home.  So he had gone down to find that he was an
+outsider--an alien--old where they were young, separated from Barry and
+Porter and Mary by years of dark experience.
+
+To him, at this moment, Mary Ballard stood for a symbol of the things
+which he had lost.  Her youth and light-heartedness, her high courage,
+and now, perhaps, her romance.  He knew the look that was in Porter
+Bigelow's eyes when they had rested upon her.  The look of a man who
+claims--his own.  And behind Bigelow's pleasant and perfunctory
+greeting Roger had felt a subtle antagonism.  He smiled bitterly.  No
+man need fear him.  He was out of the running.  He was done with love,
+with romance, with women, forever.  A woman had spoiled his life.
+
+Yet, if before the other, he had met Mary Ballard?  The possibilities
+swept over him.  His life to-day would have been different.  He would
+be facing the world, not turning his back to it.
+
+Brooding over the dying fire, his eyes were stern.  If it had been his
+fault, he would have taken his punishment without flinching.  But to be
+overthrown by an act of chivalry--to be denied the expression of that
+which surged within him.  Daily he bent over a desk, doing the work
+that any man might do, he who had been carried on the shoulders of his
+fellow students, he whose voice had rung with a clarion call!
+
+In the lower hall, a door was again opened, and now there were
+footsteps ascending.  Then he heard a little laugh.  "I've found
+her--Aunt Isabelle, she insists upon going up."
+
+He clicked off his light and very carefully opened his door.  Mary was
+in the lower hall, the heavy gray cat hugged up in her arms.  She wore
+a lace boudoir cap, and a pale blue dressing-gown trailed after her.
+Seen thus, she was exquisitely feminine.  Faintly through his
+consciousness flitted Porter Bigelow's name for her--Contrary Mary.
+Why Contrary?  Was there another side which he had not seen?  He had
+heard her flaming words to Barry, "If I were a man--I'd make the world
+move----" and he had been for the moment repelled.  He had no sympathy
+with modern feminine rebellions.  Women were women.  Men were men.  The
+things which they had in common were love, and that which followed, the
+home, the family.  Beyond these things their lives were divided,
+necessarily, properly.
+
+He groped his way back through the darkness to the tower window, opened
+it and leaned out.  The rain beat upon his face, the wind blew his hair
+back, and fluttered the ends of his loose tie.  Below him lay the
+storm-swept city, its lights faint and flickering.  He remembered a
+test which he had chosen on a night like this.
+
+"O Lord, Thou art my God.  I will exalt Thee, I will praise Thy name,
+for Thou hast done wonderful things; Thou hast been a strength to the
+poor, a strength to the needy in distress . . . a refuge from the
+storm----"
+
+How the words came back to him, out of that vivid past.  But
+to-night--why, there was no--God!  Was he the fool who had once seen
+God--in a storm?
+
+He shut the window, and finding a heavy coat and an old cap put them
+on.  Then he made his way, softly, down the tower steps to the side
+door.  Mary had pointed out to him that this entrance would make it
+possible for him to go and come as he pleased.  To-night it pleased him
+to walk in the beating rain.
+
+At the far end of the garden there was an old fountain, in which a
+bronze boy rode on a bronze dolphin.  The basin of the fountain was
+filled with sodden leaves.  A street lamp at the foot of the terrace
+illumined the bronze boy's face so that it seemed to wear a twisted
+grin.  It was as if he laughed at the storm and at life, defying the
+elements with his sardonic mirth.
+
+Back and forth, restlessly, went the lonely man, hating to enter again
+the rooms which only a few hours before had seemed a refuge.  It would
+have been better to have stayed in his last cheap boarding-house,
+better to have kept away from this place which brought memories--better
+never to have seen this group of young folk who were gay as he had once
+been gay--better never to have seen--Mary Ballard!
+
+He glanced up at the room beneath his own where her light still burned.
+He wondered if she had stayed awake to think of the young Apollo of the
+auburn head.  Perhaps he was already her accepted lover.  And why not?
+
+Why should he care who loved Mary Ballard?
+
+He had never believed in love at first sight.  He didn't believe in it
+now.  He only knew that he had been thrilled by a look, warmed by a
+friendliness, touched by a frankness and sincerity such as he had found
+in no other woman.  And because he had been thrilled and warmed and
+touched by these things, he was feeling to-night the deadly mockery of
+a fate which had brought her too late into his life.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+Coming in, shivering and excited after her ride with Porter, Mary had
+found evidence of Aunt Isabelle's solicitous care for her.  Her fire
+was burning brightly, the covers of her bed were turned down, her blue
+dressing-gown and the little blue slippers were warming in front of the
+blaze.
+
+"No one ever did such things for me before," Mary said with
+appreciation, as the gentle lady came in to kiss her niece good-night.
+"Mother wasn't that kind.  We all waited on her.  And Susan Jenks is
+too busy; it isn't right to keep her up.  And anyway I've always been
+more like a boy, taking care of myself.  Constance was the one we
+petted, Con and mother."
+
+"I love to do it," Aunt Isabelle said, eagerly.  "When I am at Frances'
+there are so many servants, and I feel pushed out.  There's nothing
+that I can do for any one.  Grace and Frances each have a maid.  So I
+live my own life, and sometimes it has been--lonely."
+
+"You darling."  Mary laid her cool young lips against the soft cheek.
+"I'm dead lonely, too.  That's why I wanted you."
+
+Aunt Isabelle stood for a moment looking into the fire.  "It has been
+years since anybody wanted me," she said, finally.
+
+There was no bitterness in her tone; she simply stated a fact.  Yet in
+her youth she had been the beauty of the family, and the toast of a
+county.
+
+"Aunt Isabelle," Mary said, suddenly, "is marriage the only way out for
+a woman?"
+
+"The only way?"
+
+"To freedom.  It seems to me that a single woman always seems to belong
+to her family.  Why shouldn't you do as you please?  Why shouldn't I?
+And yet you've never lived your own life.  And I sha'n't be able to
+live mine except by fighting every inch of the way."
+
+A flush stained Aunt Isabelle's cheeks.  "I have always been poor,
+Mary----"
+
+"But that isn't it," fiercely.  "There are poor girls who aren't
+tied--I mean by conventions and family traditions.  Why, Aunt Isabelle,
+I rented the Tower Rooms not only in defiance of the living--but of the
+dead.  I can see mother's face if we had thought of such a thing while
+she lived.  Yet we needed the money then.  We needed it to help Dad--to
+save him----"  The last words were spoken under her breath, and Aunt
+Isabelle did not catch them.
+
+"And now everybody wants me to get married.  Oh, Aunt Isabelle, sit
+down and let's talk it out.  I'm not sleepy, are you?"  She drew the
+little lady beside her on the high-backed couch which faced the fire.
+"Everybody wants me to get married, Aunt Isabelle.  And to-night I had
+it out with--Porter."
+
+"You don't love him?"
+
+"Not--that way.  But sometimes--he makes me feel as if I couldn't
+escape him--as if he would persist and persist, until he won.  But I
+don't want love to come to me that way.  It seems to me that if one
+loves, one knows.  One doesn't have to be shown."
+
+"My dear, sometimes it is a tragedy when a woman knows."
+
+"But why?"
+
+"Because men like to conquer.  When they see love in a woman's eyes,
+their own love--dies."
+
+"I should hate a man like that," said Mary, frankly.  "If a man only
+loves you because of the conquest, what's going to happen when you are
+married and the chase is over?  No, Aunt Isabelle, when I fall in love,
+it will be with a man who will know that I am the One Woman.  He must
+love me because I am Me--Myself.  Not because some one else admires me,
+or because I can keep him guessing.  He will know me as I know him--as
+his Predestined Mate!"
+
+Thus spoke Sweet and Twenty, glowing.  And Sweet and Forty, meeting
+that flame with her banked fires, faltered.  "But, my dear, how can you
+know?"
+
+"How did you know?"
+
+The abrupt question drove every drop of blood from Aunt Isabelle's
+face.  "Who told you?"
+
+"Mother.  One night when I asked her why you had never married.  You
+don't mind, do you?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head.  "No.  And, Mary, dear, I've faced all
+the loneliness, all the dependence, rather than be untrue to that which
+he gave me and I gave him.  There was one night, in this old garden.  I
+was visiting your mother, and he was in Congress at the time, and the
+garden was full of roses--and it was--moonlight.  And we sat by the
+fountain, and there was the soft splash of the water, and he said:
+'Isabelle, the little bronze boy is throwing kisses at you--do you see
+him--smiling?'  And I said, 'I want no kisses but yours'--and that was
+the last time.  The next day he was killed--thrown from his horse while
+he was riding out here to see--me.
+
+"It was after that I was so ill.  And something teemed to snap in my
+head, and one day when I sat beside the fountain I found that I
+couldn't hear the splash of the water, and things began to go; the
+voices I loved seemed far away, and I could tell that the wind was
+blowing only by the movement of the leaves, and the birds rounded out
+their little throats--but I heard--no music----"
+
+Her voice trailed away into silence.
+
+"But before the stillness, there were others who--wanted me--for I
+hadn't lost my prettiness, and Frances did her best for me.  And she
+didn't like it when I said I couldn't marry, Mary.  But now I am glad.
+For in the silence, my love and I live, in a world of our own."
+
+"Aunt Isabelle--darling.  How lovely and sweet, and sad----"  Mary was
+kneeling beside her aunt, her arm thrown around her, and Aunt Isabelle,
+reading her lips, did not need to hear the words.
+
+"If I had been strong, like you, Mary, I could have held my own against
+Frances and have made something of myself.  But I'm not strong, and
+twenty-five years ago women did not ask for freedom.  They asked
+for--love."
+
+"But I want to find freedom in my love.  Not be bound as Porter wants
+to bind me.  He'd put me on a pedestal and worship me, and I'd rather
+stand shoulder to shoulder with my husband and be his comrade.  I don't
+want him to look up too far, or to look down as Gordon looks down on
+Constance."
+
+"Looks down?  Why, he adores her, Mary."
+
+"Oh, he loves her.  And he'll do everything for her, but he will do it
+as if she were a child.  He won't ask her opinion in any vital matter.
+He won't share his big interests with her, and so he'll never discover
+the big fine womanliness.  And she'll shrivel to his measure of her."
+
+Aunt Isabelle shook her head, smiling.  "Don't analyze too much, Mary.
+Men and women are human--and you may lose yourself in a search for the
+Ideal."
+
+"Do you know what Porter calls me, Aunt Isabelle?  Contrary Mary.  He
+says I never do things the way the people expect.  Yet I do them the
+way that I must.  It is as if some force were inside of me--driving
+me--on."
+
+She stood up as she said it, stretching out her arms in an eager
+gesture.  "Aunt Isabelle, if I were a man, there'd be something in the
+world for me to do.  Yet here I am, making ends meet, holding up my
+part of the housekeeping with Susan Jenks, and taking from the hands of
+my rich friends such pleasures as I dare accept without return."
+
+Aunt Isabelle pulled her down beside her.  "Rebellious Mary," she said,
+"who is going to tame you?"
+
+They laughed a little, clinging to each other, and than Mary said, "You
+must go to bed, Aunt Isabelle.  I'm keeping you up shamefully."
+
+They kissed again and separated, and Mary made ready for bed.  She took
+off her cap, and all her lovely hair fell about her.  That was another
+of her contrary ways.  She and Constance had been taught to braid it
+neatly, but from little girlhood Mary had protested, and on going to
+bed with two prim pigtails had been known to wake up in the middle of
+the night and take them down, only to be discovered in the morning with
+all her fair curls in a tangle.  Scolding had not availed.  Once, as
+dire punishment, the curls had been cut off.  But Mary had rejoiced.
+"It makes me look like a boy," she had told her mother, calmly, "and I
+like it."
+
+Another of her little girl fancies had been to say her prayers aloud.
+She said them that way to-night, kneeling by her bed with her fair head
+on her folded hands.
+
+Then she turned out the light, and drew her curtains back.  As she
+looked out at the driving rain, the flare of the street lamp showed a
+motionless figure on the terrace.  For a moment she peered,
+palpitating, then flew into Aunt Isabelle's room.
+
+"There's some one in the garden."
+
+"Perhaps it's Barry."
+
+"Didn't he come with you?"
+
+"No.  He went on with Leila and the General."
+
+"But it is two o'clock, Aunt Isabelle."
+
+"I didn't know; I thought perhaps he had come."
+
+Going back into her room, Mary threw on her blue dressing-gown and
+slippers and opened her door.  The light was still burning in the hall.
+Barry always turned it out when he came.  She stood undecided, then
+started down the back stairs, but halted as the door opened and a dark
+figure appeared.
+
+"Barry----"
+
+Roger Poole looked up at her.  "It isn't your brother," he said.  "I--I
+must beg your pardon for disturbing you.  I could not sleep, and I went
+out----"  He stopped and stammered.  Poised there above him with all
+the wonder of her unbound hair about her, she was like some celestial
+vision.
+
+She smiled at him.  "It doesn't matter," she said; "please don't
+apologize.  It was foolish of me to be--frightened.  But I had
+forgotten that there was any one else in the house."
+
+She was unconscious of the effect of her words.  But his soul shrank
+within him.  To her he was the lodger who paid the rent.  To him she
+was, well, just now she was, to him, the Blessed Damosel!
+
+Faintly in the distance they heard the closing of a door.  "It's
+Barry," Mary said, and suddenly a wave of self-consciousness swept over
+her.  What would Barry think to find her at this hour talking to Roger
+Poole?  And what would he think of Roger Poole, who walked in the
+garden on a rainy night?
+
+Roger saw her confusion.  "I'll turn out this light," he said, "and
+wait----"
+
+And she waited, too, in the darkness until Barry was safe in his own
+room, then she spoke softly.  "Thank you so much," she said, and was
+gone.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER V
+
+_In Which Roger Remembers a Face and Delilah Remembers a Voice--and in
+Which a Poem and a Pussy Cat Play an Important Part._
+
+
+Since the night of his arrival, Roger had not intruded upon the family
+circle.  He had read hostility in Barry's eyes as the boy had looked up
+at him; and Mary, in spite of her friendliness, had forgotten that he was
+in the house!  Well, they had set the pace, and he would keep to it.
+Here in the tower he could live alone--yet not be lonely, for the books
+were there--and they brought forgetfulness.
+
+He took long walks through the city, now awakening to social and
+political activities.  Back to town came the folk who had fled from the
+summer heat; back came the members of House and of Senate, streaming in
+from North, South, East and West for the coming Congress.  Back came the
+office-seekers and the pathetic patient group whose claims were waiting
+for the passage of some impossible bill.
+
+There came, too, the sightseers and trippers, sweeping from one end of
+the town to the other, climbing the dome of the Capitol, walking down the
+steps of the Monument, venturing into the White House, piloted through
+the Bureau where the money is made, riding on "rubber-neck wagons,"
+sailing about in taxis, stampeding Mt. Vernon, bombarding Fort Myer, and
+doing it all gloriously under golden November skies.
+
+And because of the sightseers and statesmen, and the folk who had been
+away for the summer, the shops began to take on beauty.  Up F Street and
+around Fourteenth into H swept the eager procession, and all the windows
+were abloom for them.
+
+Roger walked, too, in the country.  In other lands, or at least so their
+poets have it, November is the month of chill and dreariness.  But to the
+city on the Potomac it comes with soft pink morning mists and toward
+sunset, with amethystine vistas.  And if, beyond the city, the fields are
+frosted, it is frost of a feathery whiteness which melts in the glory of
+a warmer noon.  And if the trees are bare, there is yet pale yellow under
+foot and pale rose, where the leaves wait for the winter winds which
+shall whirl them later in a mad dance like brown butterflies.  And
+there's the green of the pines, and the flaming red of five-fingered
+creepers.
+
+It was on a sunny November day, therefore, as he followed Rock Creek
+through the Park that Roger came to the old Mill where a little tea room
+supplied afternoon refreshment.
+
+As it was far away from car lines, its patronage came largely from those
+who arrived in motors or on horseback, and a few courageous pedestrians.
+
+Here Roger sat down to rest, ordering a rather substantial repast, for
+the long walk had made him hungry.
+
+It was while he waited that a big car arrived with five passengers.  He
+recognized Porter Bigelow at once, and there were besides two older men
+and two young women.
+
+The taller of the two young women had eyes that roved.  She had blue
+black hair, and she wore black--a small black hat with a thin curved
+plume, and a tailored suit cut on lines which accentuated her height and
+slenderness.  Her furs were of leopard skins.  Her cheeks were touched
+with high color under her veil.
+
+The other girl had also dark hair.  But she was small and bird-like.
+From head to foot she was in a deep dark pink that, in the wool of her
+coat and the chiffon of her veil, gave back the hue of the rose which was
+pinned to her muff.
+
+But it was on the girl in black that Roger fixed his eyes.  Where had he
+seen her?
+
+They chose a table near him, and passed within the touch of his hand.
+Porter did not recognize him.  The tall man in the old overcoat and soft
+hat was not linked in his memory with that moment of meeting in Mary's
+dining-room.
+
+"Everybody mixes up our names, Porter," the girl with the rose was saying
+as they sat down; "the girls did at school, didn't they, Lilah?"
+
+"Yes," the girl in black did not need many words with her eyes to talk
+for her.
+
+"Was it big Lilah and little Leila?" Porter asked.
+
+"No," the dark eyes above the leopard muff widened and held his gaze.
+"It was dear Leila, and dreadful Lilah.  I used to shock them, you know."
+
+The three men laughed.  "What did you do?" demanded Porter, leaning
+forward a little.
+
+Men always leaned toward Delilah Jeliffe.  She drew them even while she
+repelled.
+
+"I smoked cigarettes, for one thing," she said; "everybody does it now.
+But then--I came near being expelled for it."
+
+The little rose girl broke in hotly.  "I think it is horrid still,
+Lilah," she said.
+
+Lilah smiled and shrugged.  "But that wasn't the worst.  One day--I
+eloped."
+
+She was making them all listen.  The old men and the young one, and the
+man at the other table.
+
+"I eloped with a boy from Prep.  He was nineteen, and I was two years
+younger.  We started by moonlight in Romeo's motor car--it was great fun.
+But the clergyman wouldn't marry us.  I think he guessed that we were a
+pair of kiddies from school--and he scolded us and sent me back in a
+taxi----"
+
+The tall, thin old gentleman was protesting.  "My dear----"
+
+"Oh, you didn't know, Daddy darling," she said.  "I got back before I was
+discovered, and let myself in by the door I had unlocked.  But I couldn't
+keep it from the girls--it was such fun to make them--shiver."
+
+"And what became of Romeo?" Porter asked.
+
+"He found another Juliet--a lovely little blonde and they are living
+happy ever after."
+
+Leila's eyes were round.  "But I don't see," she began.
+
+"Of course you don't, duckie.  To me, the whole thing was an adventure
+along the road--to you, it would have been a heart-break."
+
+Her words came clearly to Roger.  That, then, was what love meant to some
+women--an adventure along the road.  One man served for pleasuring, until
+at some curve in the highway she met another.
+
+Lilah was challenging her audience.  "And now you see why I was dreadful
+Lilah.  I fit the name they had for me, don't I?"
+
+Her question was put at Porter, and he answered it.  "It is women who set
+the pace for us," he said; "if they adventure, we venture.  If they lead,
+we follow."
+
+General Dick broke in.  With his halo of white hair and his pink face, he
+looked like an indignant cherub.  "The way you young people treat serious
+subjects is appalling;" then he felt his little daughter's hand upon his
+arm.
+
+"Lilah is always saying things that she doesn't mean, Dad.  Please don't
+take her seriously."
+
+"Nobody takes me seriously," said Lilah, "and that's why nobody knows me
+as I really am."
+
+"I know you," said her father, "and you're like a little mare that I used
+to drive out on the ranch.  As long as I'd let her have her head, she was
+lovely.  But let me try to curb her, and she'd kick over the traces."
+
+They all laughed at that; then their tea came, and a great plate of
+toast, and the conversation grew intermittent and less interesting.
+
+Yet the man at the other table had his attention again arrested when
+Lilah said to Porter, as she drew on her gloves:
+
+"We are invited to Mary Ballard's for Thanksgiving, and you're to be
+there."
+
+"Yes--mother and father are going South, so I can escape the family
+feast."
+
+"Mary Ballard is--charming----"  It was said tentatively, with an upward
+sweep of her lashes.
+
+But Porter did not answer; and as he stood behind her chair, there was a
+deeper flush on his florid cheeks.  Mary's name he held in his heart.  It
+was rarely on his lips.
+
+
+Mary had not wanted Delilah and her father for Thanksgiving.  "But we
+can't have Leila and the General without them," she said to Barry, after
+a conversation with Leila over the telephone, "and it wouldn't seem like
+Thanksgiving without the Dicks."
+
+"Delilah," said Barry, comfortably, "is good fun.  I'm glad she is
+coming."
+
+"She may be good fun," said Mary, slowly, "but she isn't--our kind."
+
+"Leila said that to me," Barry told her.  "I don't quite see what you
+girls mean."
+
+"Well, you wouldn't," Mary agreed; "men don't see.  But I should think
+when you look at Leila you'd know the difference.  Leila is like a little
+wild rose, and Delilah Jeliffe is a--tulip."
+
+"I like tulips," murmured Barry, audaciously.
+
+Mary laughed.  What was the use?  Barry was Barry.  And Delilah Jeliffe
+would flit in and out of his life as other girls had flitted; but always
+there would be for him--Leila.
+
+"If you were a woman," she said, "you'd know by her clothes, and the pink
+of her cheeks, and by the way she does her hair--she's just a little too
+much of--everything--Barry."
+
+"There's just enough of Delilah Jeliffe," said Barry, "to keep a man
+guessing."
+
+"Guessing what?" Mary demanded with a spark in her eyes.
+
+"Oh, just guessing," easily.
+
+"Whether she likes you?"
+
+Barry nodded.
+
+"But why should you want to know, Barry?  You're not in love with her."
+
+His blue eyes danced.  "Love hasn't anything to do with it, little solemn
+sister; it's just in the--game."
+
+Later they had a tilt over inviting Mary's lodger.
+
+"It seems so inhospitable to let him spend the day up there alone."
+
+"I don't see how he could possibly expect to dine with us," Barry said,
+hotly.  "You don't know anything about him, Mary.  And I agree with
+Porter--a man's bank reference isn't sufficient for social recognition.
+And anyhow he may not have the right kind of clothes."
+
+"We are to have dinner at three o'clock," she said, "just as mother
+always had it on Thanksgiving Day.  If you don't want me to ask Roger
+Poole, I won't.  But I think you are an awful snob, Barry."
+
+Her eyes were blazing.
+
+"Now what have I done to deserve that?" her brother demanded.
+
+"You haven't treated him civilly," Mary said.  "In a sense he's a guest
+in our house, and you haven't been up to his rooms since he came--and
+he's a gentleman."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"Because I do."
+
+"Yet the other day you hinted that Delilah Jeliffe wasn't a lady, not in
+your sense of the word--and that I couldn't see the difference because
+was a man.  I'll let you have your opinion of Delilah Jeliffe if you'll
+let me have mine of Roger Poole."
+
+So Mary compromised by having Roger down for the evening.  "We shall be
+just a family party for dinner," she said.  "But later, we are asking
+some others for candle-lighting time.  We want everybody to come prepared
+to tell a story or recite, or to sing, or play--in the dark at first, and
+then with the candles."
+
+His pride urged him to refuse--to spurn this offer of hospitality from
+the girl who had once forgotten that he was in the house!
+
+But as he stood there on the threshold of the Tower Rooms, her smile
+seemed to draw him, her voice called him, and he was young--and
+desperately lonely.
+
+So as he dressed carefully on Thanksgiving afternoon, he had a sense of
+exhilaration.  For one night he would let himself go.  He would be
+himself.  No one should snub him.  Snubs came from self-consciousness--he
+who was above them need not see them.
+
+When at last he entered the drawing-room, it was unillumined except for
+the flickering flame of a fire of oak logs.  The guests, assembling
+wraith-like among the shadows, were given, each, an unlighted candle.
+
+Roger found a place in a big chair beside the piano, and sat there alone,
+interested and curious.  And presently Pittiwitz, stealing toward the
+hearth, arched her back under his hand, and he reached down and lifted
+her to his knee, where she stretched herself, sphinx-like, her amber eyes
+shining in the dusk.
+
+With the last guest seated, Barry stood before them, and gave the key to
+the situation.
+
+"Everybody is to light a candle with some stunt," he explained.  "You
+know the idea.  All of you have some parlor tricks, and you're to show
+them off."
+
+There were no immediate volunteers, so Barry pounced on Leila.
+
+"You begin," he said, and drew her into the circle of the firelight.
+
+She looked very childish and sweet as she stood there with her unlighted
+candle, and sang a lullaby.  Mary Ballard played her accompaniment
+softly, sitting so near to Roger in his dim corner that the folds of her
+velvet gown swept his foot.
+
+And when the song was finished, Leila touched a match to her candle and
+stood on tiptoe to set it on the corner of the mantel, where it glimmered
+bravely.
+
+General Dick and Mr. Jeliffe came next.  Solemnly they placed two
+cushions on the hearth-rug, solemnly they knelt thereon, facing each
+other.  Then intently and conscientiously they played the old game of
+"Pease porridge hot, pease porridge cold."  The General's fat hands met
+Mr. Jeliffe's thin ones alternately and in unison.  Not a mistake did
+they make, and, ending out of breath, the General found it hard to rise,
+and had to be picked by Porter, like a plump feather pillow.
+
+And now the candles were three!
+
+Then Barry and Delilah danced, a dance which they had practiced together.
+It had in it just a hint of wildness, and just a hint of sophistication,
+and Delilah in her dress of sapphire chiffon, with its flaring tunic of
+silver net, seemed in the nebulous light like some strange bird of the
+night.
+
+And now the candles were five!
+
+Following, Leila went to the piano, and Porter and Mary gave a minuet.
+They had learned it at dancing-school, and it had been years since they
+had danced it.  But they did it very well; Porter's somewhat stiff
+bearing accorded with its stateliness, and Mary, having added to her
+green velvet gown a little Juliet cap of lace and a lace fan, showed the
+radiant, almost boyish beauty which had charmed Roger on the night of the
+wedding.
+
+His pulses throbbed as he watched her.  They were a well-matched pair,
+this young millionaire and the pretty maid.  And as their orderly steps
+went through the dance, so would their orderly lives, if they married,
+continue to the end.  But what could Porter Bigelow teach Mary Ballard of
+the things which touch the stars?
+
+And now the candles were seven!  And the spirit of the carnival was upon
+the company.  Song was followed by story, and story by song--until at
+last the room seemed to swim in a golden mist.
+
+And through that mist Mary saw Roger Poole!  He was leaning forward a
+little, and there was about him the air of a man who waited.
+
+She spoke impetuously.
+
+"Mr. Poole," she said, "please----"
+
+There was not a trace of awkwardness, not a hint of self-consciousness in
+his manner as he answered her.
+
+"May I sit here?" he asked.  "You see, my pussy cat holds me, and as I
+shall tell you about a cat, she gives the touch of local color."
+
+And then he began, his right hand resting on the gray cat's head, his
+left upon his knee.
+
+He used no gestures, yet as he went on, the room became still with the
+stillness of a captured audience.  Here was no stumbling elocution, but a
+controlled and perfect method, backed by a voice which soared and sang
+and throbbed and thrilled--the voice either of a great orator, or of a
+great actor.
+
+The story that he told was of Whittington and his cat.  But it was not
+the old nursery rhyme.  He gave it as it is written by one of England's
+younger poets.  Since he lacked the time for it all, he sketched the
+theme, rounding it out here and there with a verse--and it seemed to Mary
+that, as he spoke, all the bells of London boomed!
+
+  "'_Flos Mercatorum_,' moaned the bell of All Hallowes,
+  'There was he an orphan, O, a little lad, alone!'
+  'Then we all sang,' echoed happy St. Saviour's,
+  'Called him and lured him, and made him our own.'"
+
+And now they saw the little lad stealing toward the big city, saw all the
+color and glow as he entered upon its enchantment, saw his meeting with
+the green-gowned Alice, saw him cold and hungry, faint and footsore, saw
+him aswoon on a door-step.
+
+  "'Alice,' roared a voice, and then, O like a lilied angel,
+  Leaning from the lighted door, a fair face unafraid,
+  Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise
+  Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!"
+
+Touching now a lighter note, his voice laughed through the lovely lines;
+of the ship which was to sail beyond the world; of how each man staked
+such small wealth as he possessed; "for in those days Marchaunt
+adventurers shared with their prentices the happy chance of each new
+venture."
+
+But Whittington had nothing to give.  "Not a groat," he tells sweet
+Alice.  "I staked my last groat in a cat!"
+
+  "'Ay, but we need a cat,'
+  The Captain said.  So when the painted ship
+  Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames,
+  A gray tail waved upon the misty poop,
+  And Whittington had his venture on the seas!"
+
+
+The ringing words brought tumultuous applause.  Pittiwitz, startled, sat
+up and blinked.  People bent to each other, asking: "Who is this Roger
+Poole?"  Under his breath Barry was saying, boyishly, "Gee!"  He might
+still wonder about Mary's lodger, he would never again look down on him.
+And Delilah Jeliffe sitting next to Barry murmured, "I've heard that
+voice before--but where?"
+
+Again the bells boomed as the story swept on to the fortune which came to
+the prentice lad--the price paid for his cat in Barbary by a king whose
+house was rich in gems but sorely plagued with rats and mice.
+
+Then Whittington's offer of his wealth to Alice, her refusal, and so--to
+the end.
+
+  "'I know a way,' said the Bell of St. Martin's.
+  'Tell it and be quick,' laughed the prentices below!
+  'Whittington shall marry her, marry her, marry her!
+  Peal for a wedding,' said the Big Bell of Bow."
+
+
+Roger stopped there, and with Pittiwitz in his arms, rose to light his
+candle.  All about him people were saying things, but their words seemed
+to come to him through a beating darkness.  There was only one
+face--Mary's, and she was leaning toward him, or was it above him?  "It
+was wonderful," she said.
+
+"It is a great poem."
+
+"I don't mean that--it was the way you--gave it."
+
+Outwardly calm, he carried his candle and set it in its place.
+
+Then he came back to Mary--Mary with the shining eyes.  This was his
+night!  "You liked it, then?"
+
+For a moment she did not speak, then she said again, "It was wonderful."
+
+There were other people about them now, and Roger met them with the ease
+of a man of the world.  Even Barry had to admit that his manners were
+irreproachable, and his clothes.  As for his looks, he was not to be
+matched with Mary's auburn Apollo--one cannot compare a royal stag and a
+tawny-maned lion!
+
+During the rest of the program, Roger sat enthroned at Mary's side, and
+listened.  He watched the candles, an increasing row of little pointed
+lights.  He went down to supper, and again sat beside Mary--and knew not
+what he ate.  He saw Porter's hot eyes upon him.  He knew that to-morrow
+he must doff his honors and be as he had been before.  However, "who
+knows but the world may end to-night," he told himself, desperately.
+
+Thus he played with Fate, and Fate, turning the tables, brought him at
+last to Delilah Jeliffe as the guests were saying "good-bye."
+
+"Somewhere I've heard your voice," she said with the upsweep of her
+lashes.  "It isn't the kind that one is likely to forget."
+
+"Yet you have forgotten," he parried.
+
+"I shall remember," she said.  "I want to remember--and I shall want to
+hear it again."
+
+He shook his head.  "It was my--swan song----"
+
+"Why?"
+
+He shrugged.  "One isn't always in the mood----"
+
+And now it was she who shook her head.  "It isn't a mood with you, it's
+your life."
+
+She had him there, so he carried the conversation lightly to another
+topic.  "I had not thought to give Whittington until I saw Pittiwitz."
+
+"And Mary's green gown?"
+
+Again he parried.  "It was dark.  I could not see the color of her gown."
+
+"But 'love has eyes.'"  The words were light and she meant them lightly.
+And she went away laughing.
+
+But Roger did not laugh.
+
+And when Mary came to look for him he was gone.
+
+And up-stairs, his evening stripped of its glamour, he told himself that
+he had been a fool!  The world would _not_ end to-night.  He had to live
+the appointed length of his days, through all the dreary years.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VI
+
+_In Which Mary Brings Christmas to the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger
+Declines a Privilege for Which Porter Pleads._
+
+
+On Christmas Eve, Mary and Susan Jenks brought up to Roger a little
+tree.  It was just a fir plume, but it was gay with tinsel and spicy
+with the fragrance of the woods, and it was topped by a wee wax angel.
+
+In vain Mary and Barry and even Aunt Isabelle had urged Roger to join
+their merrymaking downstairs.  Aunt Frances, having delayed her trip
+abroad until January, was coming; and except for Leila and General Dick
+and Porter Bigelow, it was to be strictly a family affair.
+
+But Roger had refused.  "I'm not one of you," he had told Mary.  "I'm a
+bee, not a butterfly, and I shouldn't have joined you on Thanksgiving
+night.  When you're alone, if I may, I'll come down--but please--not
+with your guests."
+
+He had not joined them often, however, and he had never again shown the
+mood which had possessed him when his voice had charmed them.  Hence
+they grew, as the days went on, to know him as quiet, self-contained
+man, whose eyes burned now and then, when some subject was broached
+which moved him, but who, for the most part, showed at least an outward
+serenity.
+
+They grew to like him, too, and to depend upon him.  Even Aunt Isabelle
+went to him for advice.  He had such an attentive manner, and when he
+spoke, he gave his opinion with an air of comforting authority.
+
+But always he avoided Porter Bigelow, he avoided Leila, and most of
+all, he avoided Delilah Jeliffe, although that persistent young person
+would have invaded the Tower Rooms, if Mary had not warned her away.
+
+"He is very busy, Lilah," she said, "and when he isn't, he comes down
+here."
+
+"Don't you ever go up?" Delilah's tone was curious.
+
+"No," said Mary, "Why should I?"
+
+Delilah shrugged.  "If a man," she said, "had looked at me as he
+looked at you on Thanksgiving night, I should be, to say the
+least--interested----"
+
+Mary's head was held high.  "I like Roger Poole," she said, "and he's a
+gentleman.  But I'm not thinking about the look in his eyes."
+
+Yet she did think of it, after all, for such seed does the Delilah-type
+of woman sow.  She thought of him, but only with a little wonder--for
+Mary was as yet unawakened--Porter's passionate pleading, the magic of
+Roger Poole's voice--these had not touched the heart which still waited.
+
+"Since Mahomet wouldn't come to the mountain," Mary remarked to her
+lodger as Susan deposited her burden, "the mountain had to come to
+Mahomet.  And here's a bit of mistletoe for your door, and of holly for
+your window."
+
+He took the wreaths from her.  "You are like the spirit of Christmas in
+your green gown."
+
+"This?"  She was wearing the green velvet--with a low collar of lace.
+"Oh, I've had this for ages, but I like it----"  She broke off to say,
+wistfully, "It seems as if you ought to come down--as if up here you'd
+be lonely."
+
+Susan Jenks, hanging the mistletoe over the door, was out of range of
+their voices.
+
+"I am lonely," Roger said, "but now with my little tree, I shall forget
+everything but your kindness."
+
+"Don't you love Christmas?" Mary asked him.  "It's such a friendly
+time, with everybody thinking of everybody else.  I had to hunt a lot
+before I found the wax angel.  It needed such a little one--but I
+always want one on my tree.  When I was a child, mother used to tell me
+that the angel was bringing a message of peace and good will to our
+house."
+
+"If the little angel brings me your good will, I shall feel that he has
+performed his mission."
+
+"Oh, but you have it," brightly.  "We are all so glad you are here.
+Even Barry, and Barry hated the idea at first of our having a lodger.
+But he likes you."
+
+"And I like Barry," he said.  "He is youth--incarnate."
+
+"He's a dear," she agreed.  Then a shadow came into her eyes.  "But
+he's such a boy, and--and he's spoiled.  Everybody's too good to him.
+Mother was--and father, though father tried not to be.  And Leila is,
+and Constance--and Aunt Isabelle excuses him, and even Susan Jenks."
+
+Susan Jenks, having hung all the wreaths, had departed, and was not
+there to hear this mention of her shortcomings.
+
+"I see--and you?" smiling.
+
+She drew a long breath.  "I'm trying to play Big Sister--and sometimes
+I'm afraid I'm more like a big brother--I haven't the--patience."
+
+His attentive face invited further confidence.  It was the face of a
+man who had listened to many confidences, and instinctively she felt
+that others had been helped by him.
+
+"You see I want Barry to pass the Bar examination.  All of the men of
+our family have been lawyers, But Barry won't study, and he has taken a
+position in the Patent Office.  He's wasting these best years as a
+clerk."
+
+Then she remembered, and begged, "Forgive me----"
+
+"There's nothing to forgive," he said.  "I suppose I am wasting my
+years as a clerk in the Treasury Department--but there's this
+difference, your brother's life is before him--mine is behind me.  His
+ambitions are yet to be fulfilled.  I have no--ambitions."
+
+"You don't mean that--you can't mean it?"
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"Because you're a man!  Oh, I should have been the man of our
+family--and Barry and Constance should have been the girls."  Her eyes
+blazed.
+
+"You think then, as I heard you say the other night on the stairs, that
+the world is ours; yet we men let it stand still."
+
+Her head went up.  "Yes.  Perhaps you do have to fight for what you
+get.  But I'd rather die fighting than smothered."
+
+He laughed a good boyish laugh.  "Does Barry know that you feel that
+way?"
+
+"I'm afraid," penitently, "that I make him feel it, sometimes.  And he
+doesn't know that it is because I care so much.  That it is because I
+want him to be like--father."
+
+He smiled into her misty eyes.  "Perhaps if you weren't so militant--in
+your methods----"
+
+"Oh, that's the trouble with Barry.  Everybody's too good to him.  And
+when I try to counteract it, Barry says that I nag.  But he doesn't
+understand."
+
+Her voice broke, and by some subtle intuition he was aware that her
+burden was heavier than she was willing to admit.
+
+She stood up and held out her hand.  "Thank you so much--for letting me
+talk to you."
+
+He took her hand and stood looking down at her.
+
+"Will you remember that always--when you need to talk things out--that
+the Tower Room--is waiting?"
+
+And now there were steps dancing up the stairs, and Barry whirled in
+with Little-Lovely Leila.
+
+"Mary," he said, "we are ready to light the tree, and Aunt Frances is
+having fits because you aren't down.  You know she always has fits when
+things are delayed.  Poole, you are a selfish hermit to stay off up
+here with a tree of your own."
+
+Roger, who had stepped forward to speak to Leila, shook his head.  "I
+don't deserve to be invited.  And you're all too good to me."
+
+"Oh, but we're not," Leila spoke in her pretty childish way; "we'd love
+to have you down.  Everybody's just crazy about you, Mr. Poole."
+
+They shouted at that.
+
+"Leila," Barry demanded, "are you crazy about him?  Tell me now and get
+the agony over."
+
+Leila, tilting herself on her pink slipper toes almost crowed with
+delight at his teasing: "I said, _everybody_----"
+
+Barry advanced to where she stood in the doorway.
+
+"Leila Dick," he announced, "you're under the mistletoe, and you can't
+escape, and I'm going to kiss you.  It's my ancient and hereditary
+privilege--isn't it, Poole?  It's my ancient and hereditary privilege,"
+he repeated, and now he was bending over her.
+
+"Barry," Mary expostulated, "behave yourself."
+
+But it was Leila who stopped him.  Her little hands held him off, her
+face was white.  "Barry," she whispered, "Barry--_please_----"
+
+He dropped her hands.
+
+"You blessed baby," he said, with all his laughter gone.  "You're like
+a little sweet saint in an altar shrine!"
+
+Then, with another sudden change of mood, he whirled her away as
+quickly as he had come, and Mary, following, stopped on the threshold
+to say to Roger:
+
+"We shall all be away to-morrow.  We are to dine at General Dick's.
+But I am going to church in the morning--the six o'clock service.  It's
+lovely with the snow and the stars.  There'll be just Barry and me.
+Won't you come?"
+
+He hesitated.  Then, "No," he said, "no," and lest she should think him
+unappreciative, he added, "I never go to church."
+
+She came back to him and stood by the fire.  "Don't you believe in it?"
+She was plainly troubled for him.  "Don't you believe in the angels and
+the shepherds, and the wise men, and the Babe in the Manger?"
+
+"No," he said dully, "I don't believe."
+
+"Oh," it was almost a cry, "then what does Christmas mean to you?  What
+can it mean to anybody who doesn't believe in the Babe and the Star in
+the East?"
+
+"It means this, Mary Ballard," he said, impetuously, "that out of all
+my unbelief--I believe in you--in your friendliness.  And that is my
+star shining just now in the darkness."
+
+She would have been less than a woman if she had not been thrilled by
+such a tribute.  So she blushed shyly.  "I'm glad," she said and smiled
+up at him.
+
+But as she went down-stairs, the smile faded.  It was as if the shadow
+of the Tower Rooms were upon her.  As if the loneliness and sadness of
+Roger Poole had become hers.  As if his burden was added to her other
+burdens.
+
+Aunt Frances, more regal than ever in gold and amethyst brocade, was
+presiding over a mountainous pile of white boxes, behind which the
+unlighted tree spread its branches.
+
+"My child," she said reprovingly, as Mary entered, "I wonder if you
+were ever in time for anything."
+
+And Porter whispered in Mary's ear as he led her to the piano: "Is this
+a merry Christmas or a Contrary-Mary Christmas?  You look as if you had
+the weight of the world on your shoulders."
+
+She shook her head.  Tears were very near the surface.  He saw it and
+was jealously unhappy.  What had brought her in this mood from the
+Tower Rooms?
+
+And now Barry turned off the lights, and in the darkness Mary struck
+the first chords and began to sing, "Holy Night----"
+
+As her voice throbbed through the stillness, little stars shone out
+upon the tree until it was all in shining glory.
+
+Up-stairs, Roger heard Mary singing.  He went to his window and drew
+back the curtains.  Outside the world was wrapped in snow.  The lights
+from the lower windows shone on the fountain, and showed the little
+bronze boy in a winding sheet of white.
+
+But it was not the little bronze boy that Roger Poole saw.  It was
+another boy--himself--singing in a dim church in a big city, and his
+soul was in the words.  And when he knelt to pray, it seemed to him
+that the whole world prayed.  He was bathed in reverence.  In his
+boyish soul there was no hint of unbelief--no doubt of the divine
+mystery.
+
+He saw himself again in a church.  And now it was he who spoke to the
+people of the Shepherds and the Star.  And he knew that he was making
+them believe.  That he was bringing to them the assurance which
+possessed his own soul--and again there were candles on the altar, and
+again he sang, and the choir boys sang, and the song was the one that
+Mary Ballard was singing----
+
+He saw himself once more in a church.  But this time there was no
+singing.  There were no candles, no light except such as came faintly
+through the leaded panes.  He was alone in the dimness, and he stood in
+the pulpit and looked around at the empty pews.  Then the light went
+out behind the windows, and he knelt in the darkness; but not to pray.
+His head was hidden in his arms.  Since then he had never shed a tear,
+and he had never gone to church.
+
+      *      *      *      *      *      *
+
+Mary's song was followed by carols in which the other voices
+joined--Porter's and Barry's and Leila's; General Dick's breathy tenor,
+Aunt Isabelle's quaver, Aunt Frances' dominant note--with Susan Jenks
+and the colored maid who helped her on such occasions, piping up like
+two melodious blackbirds in the hall.
+
+Then General Dick played Santa Claus, handing out the parcels with
+felicitous little speeches.
+
+Constance had sent a big box from London.  There were fads and
+fripperies from Grace Clendenning in Paris, while Aunt Frances had
+evidently raided Fifth Avenue and had brought away its treasures.
+
+"It looks like a French shop," said Leila, happy in her own gifts of
+gloves and silk stockings and slipper buckles and beads, and the
+crowning bliss of a little pearl heart from Barry.
+
+Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds
+and emeralds.
+
+Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty.  "It's a
+genuine antique?"
+
+He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation.
+
+Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's.  She belonged
+to an old French family.  My grandfather met her when he was in the
+diplomatic service.  He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my
+hair."
+
+"It's a lovely thing.  But--Porter--it mustn't bind me to anything.  I
+want to be free."
+
+"You are free.  Do you remember when you were a kiddie that I gave you
+a penny ring out of my popcorn bag?  You didn't think that ring tied
+you to anything, did you?  Well, this is just another penny prize
+package."
+
+So she wore it on her right hand and when he said "Good-night," he
+lifted the hand and kissed it.
+
+"Girl, dear, may this be the merriest Christmas ever!"
+
+And now the tears overflowed.  They were alone in the lower hall and
+there was no one to see.  "Oh, Porter," she wailed, "I'm missing
+Constance dreadfully--it isn't Christmas--without her.  It came over me
+all at once--when I was trying to think that I was happy."
+
+"Poor little Contrary Mary--if you'd only let me take care of you."
+
+She shook her head.  "I didn't mean to be--silly, Porter."
+
+"You're not silly."  Then after a silence, "Shall you go to early
+service in the morning?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"May I go?"
+
+"Of course.  Barry's going, too."
+
+"You mean that you won't let me go with you alone."
+
+"I mean nothing of the kind.  Barry always goes.  He used to do it to
+please mother, and now he does it--for remembrance."
+
+"I'm so jealous of my moments alone with you.  Why can't Leila stay
+with you to-night, then there will be four of us, and I can have you to
+myself.  I can bring the car, if you'd rather."
+
+"No, I like to walk.  It's so lovely and solemn."
+
+"Be sure to ask Leila."
+
+She promised, and he went away, having to look in at a dance given by
+one of his mother's friends; and Mary, returning to join the others,
+pondered, a little wistfully, on the fact that Porter Bigelow should be
+so eager for a privilege which Roger Poole had just declined.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VII
+
+_In Which Aunt Frances Speaks of Matrimony as a Fixed Institution and
+is Met by Flaming Arguments; and in Which a Strange Voice Sings Upon
+the Stairs._
+
+
+Aunt Frances stayed until after the New Year.  But before she went she
+sounded Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Has Mary said anything to you about Porter Bigelow?"
+
+"About Porter?"
+
+"Yes," impatiently, "about marrying him.  Anybody can see that he's
+dead in love with her, Isabelle."
+
+"I don't think Mary wants to marry anybody.  She's an independent
+little creature.  She should have been the boy, Frances."
+
+"I wish to heaven she had," Aunt Frances' tone was fervent.  "I can't
+see any future for Barry, unless he marries Leila.  If he were not so
+irresponsible, I might do something for him.  But Barry is such a
+will-o'-the-wisp."
+
+Aunt Isabelle went on with her mending, and Aunt Frances again pounced
+upon her.
+
+"And it isn't just that he is irresponsible.  He's----  Did you notice
+on Christmas Day, Isabelle--that after dinner he wasn't himself?"
+
+Aunt Isabelle had noticed.  And it was not the first time.  Her quick
+eyes had seen things which Mary had thought were hidden.  She had not
+needed ears to tell the secret which was being kept from her in that
+house.
+
+Yet her sense of loyalty sealed her lips.  She would not tell Frances
+anything.  They were dear children.
+
+"He's just a boy, Frances," she said, deprecatingly, "and I am sorry
+that General Dick put temptation in his way."
+
+"Don't blame the General.  If Barry's weak, no one can make him strong
+but himself.  I wish he had some of Porter Bigelow's steadiness.  Mary
+won't look at Porter, and he's dead in love with her."
+
+"Perhaps in time she may."
+
+"Mary's like her father," Aunt Frances said shortly.  "John Ballard
+might have been rich when he died, if he hadn't been such a dreamer.
+Mary calls herself practical--but her head is full of moonshine."
+
+Aunt Frances made this arraignment with an uncomfortable memory of a
+conversation with Mary the day before.  They had been shopping, and had
+lunched together at a popular tea room.  It was while they sat in their
+secluded corner that Aunt Frances had introduced in a roundabout way
+the topic which obsessed her.
+
+"I am glad that Constance is so happy, Mary."
+
+"She ought to be," Mary responded; "it's her honeymoon."
+
+"If you would follow her example and marry Porter Bigelow, my mind
+would be at rest."
+
+"But I don't want to marry Porter, Aunt Frances.  I don't want to marry
+anybody."
+
+Aunt Frances raised her gold lorgnette, "If you don't marry," she
+demanded, "how do you expect to live?"
+
+"I don't understand."
+
+"I mean who is going to pay your bills for the rest of your life?
+Barry isn't making enough to support you, and I can't imagine that
+you'd care to be dependent on Gordon Richardson.  And the house is
+rapidly losing its value.  The neighborhood isn't what it was when your
+father bought it, and you can't rent rooms when nobody wants to come
+out here to live.  And then what?  It's a woman's place to marry when
+she meets a man who can take care of her--and you'll find that you
+can't pick Porter Bigelows off every bush--not in Washington."
+
+Thus spoke Worldly-Wisdom, not mincing words, and back came Youth and
+Romance, passionately.  "Aunt Frances, a woman hasn't any right to
+marry just because she thinks it is her best chance.  She hasn't any
+right to make a man feel that he's won her when she's just little and
+mean and mercenary."
+
+"That sounds all right," said the indignant dame opposite her, "but as
+I said before, if you don't marry,--what are you going to do?"
+
+Faced by that cold question, Mary met it defiantly.  "If the worst
+comes, I can work.  Other women work."
+
+"You haven't the training or the experience." Aunt Frances told her
+coldly; "don't be silly, Mary.  You couldn't earn your shoe-strings."
+
+And thus having said all there was to be said, the two ate their salad
+with diminished appetite, and rode home in a taxi in stiff silence.
+
+
+Aunt Frances' mind roamed back to Aunt Isabelle, and fixed on her as a
+scapegoat.  "She's like you, Isabelle," she said, "with just the
+difference between the ideals of twenty years ago and to-day.  You
+haven't either of you an idea of the world as a real place--you make
+romance the rule of your lives--and I'd like to know what you've gotten
+out of it, or what she will."
+
+"I'm not afraid for Mary."  There was a defiant ring in Aunt Isabelle's
+voice which amazed Aunt Frances.  "She'll make things come right.  She
+has what I never had, Frances.  She has strength and courage."
+
+It was this conversation with Aunt Frances which caused Mary, in the
+weeks that followed, to bend for hours over a yellow pad on which she
+made queer hieroglyphics.  And it was through these hieroglyphics that
+she entered upon a new phase of her friendship with Roger Poole.
+
+He had gone to work one morning, haggard after a sleepless night.
+
+As he approached the Treasury, the big building seemed to loom up
+before him like a prison.  What, after all, were those thousands who
+wended their way every morning to the great beehives of Uncle Sam but
+slaves chained to an occupation which was deadening?
+
+He flung the question later at the little stenographer who sat next to
+him.  "Miss Terry," he asked, "how long have you been here?"
+
+She looked up at him, brightly.  She was short and thin, with a
+sprinkle of gray in her hair.  But she was well-groomed and nicely
+dressed in her mannish silk shirt and gray tailored skirt.
+
+"Twenty years," she said, snapping a rubber band about her note-book.
+
+"And always at this desk?"
+
+"Oh, dear, no.  I came in at nine hundred, and now I am getting twelve
+hundred."
+
+"But always in this room?"
+
+She nodded.  "Yes.  And it is very nice.  Most of the people have been
+here as long as I, and some of them much longer.  There's Major Orr,
+for example, he has been here since just after the War."
+
+"Do you ever feel as if you were serving sentence?"
+
+She laughed.  She was not troubled by a vivid imagination.  "It really
+isn't bad for a woman.  There aren't many places with as short hours
+and as good pay."
+
+For a woman?  But for a man?  He turned back to his desk.  What would
+he be after twenty years of this?  He waked every morning with the
+day's routine facing him--knowing that not once in the eight hours
+would there be a demand upon his mentality, not once would there be the
+thrill of real accomplishment.
+
+At noon when he saw Miss Terry strew bird seed on the broad window sill
+for the sparrows, he likened it to the diversions of a prisoner in his
+cell.  And, when he ate lunch with a group of fellow clerks in a cheap
+restaurant across the way, he wondered, as they went back, why they
+were spared the lockstep.
+
+In this mood he left the office at half-past four, and passing the
+place where he usually ate, inexpensively, he entered a luxurious
+up-town hotel.  There he read the papers until half-past six; then
+dined in a grill room which permitted informal dress.
+
+Coming out later, he met Barry coming in, linked arm in arm with two
+radiant youths of his own kind and class.  Musketeers of modernity,
+they found their adventures on the city streets, in cafes and cabarets,
+instead of in field and forest and on the battle-field.
+
+Barry, with a flower in his buttonhole, welcomed Roger uproariously.
+"Here's Whittington," he said.  "You ought to hear his poem, fellows,
+about a little cat.  He had us all hypnotized the other night."
+
+Roger glanced at him sharply.  His exaggerated manner, the looseness of
+his phrasing, the flush on his cheeks were in strange contrast to his
+usual frank, clean boyishness.
+
+"Come on, Poole," Barry urged, "we'll motor out in Jerry's car to the
+Country Club, and you can give it to us out there--about Whittington
+and the little cat."
+
+Roger declined, and Barry took quick offense.  "Oh, well, if you don't
+want to, you needn't," he said; "four's a crowd, anyhow--come on,
+fellows."
+
+Roger, vaguely troubled, watched him until he was lost in the crowd,
+then sighed and turned his steps homeward.
+
+As Roger ascended to his Tower, the house seemed strangely silent.
+Pittiwitz was asleep beside the pot of pink hyacinths.  She sat up,
+yawned, and welcomed him with a little coaxing note.  When he had
+settled himself in his big chair, she came and curled in the corner of
+his arm, and again went to sleep.
+
+Deep in his reading, he was roused an hour later by a knock at his door.
+
+He opened it, to find Mary on the threshold.
+
+"May I come in?" she asked, and she seemed breathless.  "It is Susan's
+night out, and Aunt Isabelle is at the opera with some old friends.
+Barry expected to be here with me, but he hasn't come.  And I sat in
+the dining-room--and waited," she shivered, "until I couldn't stand it
+any more."
+
+She tried to laugh, but he saw that she was very pale.
+
+"Please don't think I'm a coward," she begged.  "I've never been that.
+But I seemed suddenly to have a sort of nervous panic, and I thought
+perhaps you wouldn't mind if I sat with you--until Barry--came----"
+
+"I'm glad he didn't come, if it is going to give me an evening with
+you."  He drew a chair to the fire.
+
+They had talked of many things when she asked, suddenly, "Mr. Poole, I
+wonder if you can tell me--about the examinations for stenographers in
+the Departments--are they very rigid?"
+
+"Not very.  Of course they require speed and accuracy."
+
+She sighed.  "I'm accurate enough, but I wonder if I can ever acquire
+speed."
+
+He stared.  "You----?"
+
+She nodded.  "I haven't mentioned it to any one.  One's family is so
+hampering sometimes--they'd all object--except Aunt Isabelle, but I
+want to be prepared to work, if I ever need to earn my living."
+
+"May you never need it," he said, fervently, visions rising of little
+Miss Terry and her machine-made personality.  What had this girl with
+the fair hair and the shining eyes to do with the blank life between
+office walls?
+
+"May you never need it," he repeated.  "A woman's place is in the
+home--it's a man's place to fight the world."
+
+"But if there isn't a man to fight a woman's battles?"
+
+"There will always be some one to fight yours."
+
+"You mean that I can--marry?  But what if I don't care to marry merely
+to be--supported?"
+
+"There would have to be other things, of course," gravely.
+
+"What, for example?"
+
+"Love."
+
+"You mean the 'honor and obey' kind?  But don't want that when I marry.
+I want a man to say to me, 'Come, let us fight the battle together.  If
+it's defeat, we'll go down together.  If its victory, we'll win.'"
+
+This was to him a strange language, yet there was that about it which
+thrilled him.
+
+Yet he insisted, dogmatically, "There are men enough in the world to
+take care of the women, and the women should let them."
+
+"No, they should not.  Suppose I should not marry.  Must I let Barry
+take care of me, or Constance--and go on as Aunt Isabelle has, eating
+the bread of dependence?"
+
+"But you?  Why, one only needs to look at you to know that there'll be
+a live-happy-ever-after ending to your romance."
+
+"That's what they thought about Aunt Isabelle.  But she lost her lover,
+and she couldn't love again.  And if she had had an absorbing
+occupation, she would have been saved so much humiliation, so much
+heart-break."
+
+She told him the story with its touching pathos.  "And think of it,"
+she ended, "right here in our garden by the fountain, she saw him for
+the last time."
+
+Chilled by the ghostly breath of dead romance, they sat for a while in
+silence, then Mary said: "So that's why I'm trying to learn
+something--that will have an earning value.  I can sing and play a
+little, but not enough to make--money."
+
+She sighed, and he set himself to help her.
+
+"The quickest way," he said, "to acquire speed, is to have some one
+read to you."
+
+"Aunt Isabelle does sometimes, but it tires her."
+
+"Let me do it.  I should never tire."
+
+"Oh, wouldn't you mind?  Could we practice a little--now?"
+
+And so it began--the friendship in which he served her, and loved the
+serving.
+
+He read, slowly, liking to see, when he raised his eyes, the slim white
+figure in the big chair, the firelight on the absorbed face.
+
+Thus the time slipped by, until with a start, Mary looked up.
+
+"I don't see what is keeping Barry."
+
+Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell.  "I saw him
+down-town.  I think he was on his way to the Country Club.  He had been
+dining with some friends."
+
+"Men friends?"
+
+"Yes.  He called one of them Jerry."
+
+He saw the color rise in her face.  "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry
+promised Constance he'd let those boys alone."
+
+Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling
+with a gripping fear.
+
+This, then, was the burden she was bearing?  And what a brave little
+thing she was to face the world with her head up.
+
+"Would you like to have me call the Country Club--I might be able to
+get your brother on the wire."
+
+"Oh; if you would."
+
+But he was saved the trouble.  For, even while they spoke of him, Barry
+came, and Mary went down to him.
+
+A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice
+was singing--a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout.
+
+Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the
+railing.  Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother
+up the lower flight.  Barry had his arm around her, but her face was
+turned from him, and her head drooped.
+
+Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to
+the threshold of the boy's room.  The door opened and shut, and she was
+alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that
+strange song.
+
+Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then
+turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by
+her upraised arm.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER VIII
+
+_In Which Little-Lovely Leila Sees a Picture in an Unexpected Place;
+and in Which Perfect Faith Speaks Triumphantly Over the Telephone._
+
+
+Whatever Delilah Jeliffe might lack, it was not originality.  The
+apartment which she chose for her winter in Washington was like any
+other apartment when she went into it, but the changes which she
+made--the things which she added and the things which she took away,
+stamped it at once with her own individuality.
+
+The peacock screen before the fireplace, the cushions of sapphire and
+emerald and old gold on the couch, the mantel swept of all ornament
+except a seven-branched candlestick; these created the first
+impression.  Then one's eyes went to an antique table on which a
+crystal ball, upborne by three bronze monkeys, seemed to gather to
+itself mysteriously all the glow of firelight and candlelight and rich
+color.  At the other end of the table was a low bowl, filled always
+with small saffron-hued roses.
+
+In this room, one morning, late in Lent, Leila Dick sat, looking as out
+of place as an English daisy in a tropical jungle.
+
+Leila did not like the drawn curtains and the dimness.  Outside the sun
+was shining, gloriously, and the sky was a deep and lovely blue.
+
+She was glad when Lilah sent for her.
+
+"You are to come right to her room," the maid announced.
+
+"Heavens, child," said the Delilah-beauty, who was combing her hair, "I
+didn't promise to be up with the birds."
+
+"The birds were up long ago," Leila perched herself on an old English
+love-seat.  "We're to have lunch before we go to Fort Myer, and it is
+almost one now."
+
+Lilah yawned, "Is it?" and went on combing her hair with the air of one
+who has hours before her.  She wore a silken negligee of flamingo red
+which matched her surroundings, for this room was as flaming as the
+other was subdued.  Yet the effect was not that of crude color; it was,
+rather, that of color intensified deliberately to produce a contrast.
+Delilah's bedroom was high noon under a blazing sun, the sitting-room
+was midnight under the stars.
+
+With her black hair at last twisted into wonderful coils, Delilah
+surveyed her face reflectively in the mirror, and having decided that
+she needed no further aid from the small jars on her dressing table,
+she turned to her friend.
+
+"What shall I wear, Leila?"
+
+"If I told you," was the calm response, "you wouldn't wear it."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "No, I wouldn't.  I simply have to think such things
+out for myself.  But I meant what kind of clothes--dress up or motor
+things?"
+
+"Porter will take us out in his car.  You'll need your heavy coat, and
+something good-looking underneath, for lunch, you know."
+
+"Is Mary Ballard going?"
+
+"Of course.  We shouldn't get Porter's car if she weren't."
+
+"Mary wasn't with us the day we had tea with him in the Park."
+
+"No, but she was asked.  Porter never leaves her out."
+
+"Are they engaged?"
+
+"No, Mary won't be."
+
+"She'll never get a better chance," Delilah reflected.  "She isn't
+pretty, and she's rather old style."
+
+Leila blazed.  "She's beautiful----"
+
+"To you, duckie, because you love her.  But the average man wouldn't
+call Mary Ballard beautiful."
+
+"I don't care--the un-average one would.  And Mary Ballard wouldn't
+look at an ordinary man."
+
+"No man is ordinary when he is in love."
+
+"Oh, with you," Leila's tone was scornful, "love's just a game."
+
+Lilah rose, crossed the room with swift steps, and kissed her.  "Don't
+let me ruffle your plumage, Jenny Wren," she said; "I'm a screaming
+peacock this morning."
+
+"What's the matter?"
+
+"I'm not the perfect success I planned to be.  Oh, I can see it.  I've
+been here for three months, and people stare at me, but they don't call
+on me--not the ones I want to know.  And it's because I am
+too--emphasized.  In New York you have to be emphatic to be anything at
+all.  Otherwise you are lost in the crowd.  That's why Fifth Avenue is
+full of people in startling clothes.  In the mob you won't be singled
+out simply for your pretty face--there are too many pretty faces; so it
+is the woman who strikes some high note of conspicuousness who attracts
+attention.  But you're like a flock of cooing doves, you Washington
+girls.  You're as natural and frank and unaffected as a--a covey of
+partridges.  I believe I am almost jealous of your Mary Ballard this
+morning."
+
+"Not because of Porter?"
+
+"Not because of any man.  But there are things about her which I can't
+acquire.  I've the money and the clothes and the individuality.  But
+there's a simplicity about her, a directness, that comes from years of
+association with things I haven't had.  Before I came here, I thought
+money could buy anything.  But it can't.  Mary Ballard couldn't be
+anything else.  And I--I can be anything from a siren to a soubrette,
+but I can't be a lady--not the kind that you are--and Mary Ballard."
+
+Saying which, the tropic creature in flamingo red sat down beside the
+cooing dove, and continued:
+
+"You were right just now, when you said that the un-average man would
+love Mary Ballard.  Porter Bigelow loves her, and he tops all the other
+men I've met.  And he'd never love me.  He will laugh with me and joke
+with me, and if he wasn't in love with Mary, he might flirt with
+me--but I'm not his kind--and he knows it."
+
+She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.  "There are other fish in the
+sea, of course, and Porter Bigelow is Mary's.  But I give you my word,
+Leila Dick, that when I catch sight of his blessed red head towering
+above the others--like a lion-hearted Richard, I can't see anybody
+else."
+
+For the first time since she had known her, Leila was drawn to the
+other by a feeling of sympathetic understanding.
+
+"Are you in love with him, Lilah?" she asked; timidly.
+
+Lilah stood up, stretching her hands above her head.  "Who knows?
+Being in love and loving--perhaps they are different things, duckie."
+
+With which oracular remark she adjourned to her dressing-room, where,
+in long rows, her lovely gowns were hung.
+
+Leila, left alone, picked up a magazine on the table beside her glanced
+through it and laid it down; picked a bonbon daintily out of a big box
+and ate it; picked up a photograph----
+
+"Mousie," said Lilah, coming back, several minutes later, "what makes
+you so still?  Did you find a book?"
+
+No, Leila had not found a book, and the photograph was back where she
+had first discovered it, face downward under the box of chocolates.
+And she was now standing by the window, her veil drawn tightly over her
+close little hat, so that one might not read the trouble in her
+telltale eyes.  The daisy drooped now, as if withered by the blazing
+sun.
+
+But Delilah saw nothing of the change.  She wore a saffron-hued coat,
+which matched the roses in the other room, and her leopard skins, with
+a small hat of the same fur.
+
+As she surveyed herself finally in the long glass, she flung out the
+somewhat caustic remark:
+
+"When I get down-stairs and look at Mary Ballard, I shall feel like a
+Beardsley poster propped up beside a Helleu etching."
+
+After lunch, Porter took Aunt Isabelle and Barry and the three girls to
+Fort Myer.  The General and Mr. Jeliffe met them at the drill hall, and
+as they entered there came to them the fresh fragrance of the tan bark.
+
+As the others filed into their seats, Barry held Leila back.  "We will
+sit at the end," he said.  "I want to talk to you."
+
+Through her veil, her eyes reproached him.
+
+"No," she said; "no."
+
+He looked down at her in surprise.  Never before had Little-Lovely
+Leila refused the offer of his valuable society.
+
+"You sit beside--Delilah," she said, nervously, "She's really your
+guest."
+
+"She is Porter's guest," he declared.  "I don't see why you want to
+turn her over to me."  Then as she endeavored to pass him, he caught
+her arm.
+
+"What's the matter?" he demanded.
+
+"Nothing," faintly,
+
+"Nothing----" scornfully.  "I can read you like a book.  What's
+happened?"
+
+But she merely shook her head and sat down, and then the bugle sounded,
+and the band began to play, and in came the cavalry--a gallant company,
+through the sun-lighted door, charging in a thundering line toward the
+reviewing stand--to stop short in a perfect and sudden salute.
+
+The drill followed, with men riding bareback, men riding four abreast,
+men riding in pyramids, men turning somersaults on their trained and
+intelligent steeds.
+
+One man slipped, fell from his horse, and lay close in the tan bark,
+while the other horses went over him, without a hoof touching, so that
+he rose unhurt, and took his place again in the line.
+
+Leila hid her eyes in her muff.  "I don't like it," she said.  "I've
+never liked it.  And what if that man had been killed?"
+
+"They don't get killed," said Barry easily.  "The hospital is full of
+those who get hurt, but it is good for them; it teaches them to be cool
+and competent when real danger comes."
+
+And now came the artillery, streaming through that sun-lighted
+entrance, the heavy wagons a featherweight to the strong, galloping
+horses.  Breathless Leila watched their manoeuvres, as they wheeled and
+circled and crisscrossed in spaces which seemed impossibly
+small--horses plunging, gun-wagons rattling, dust flying--faster,
+faster----  Again she shut her eyes.
+
+But Mary Ballard, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing, turned to Porter.
+"Don't you love it?" she asked.
+
+"I love you----" audaciously.  "Mary, you and I were born in the wrong
+age.  We belong to the days of King Arthur.  Then I could have worn a
+coat of mail and have stormed your castle, and I shouldn't have cared
+if you hurled defiance from the top turret.  I'd have known that, at
+last, you'd be forced to let down the drawbridge; and I would have
+crossed the moat and taken you prisoner, and you'd have been so
+impressed with my strength and prowess that you would----"
+
+"No, I wouldn't," said Mary quickly.
+
+"Wait till I finish," said Porter, coolly.  "I'd have shut you up in a
+tower, and every night I'd have come and sung beneath your window, and
+at last you'd have dropped a red rose down to me."
+
+They were laughing together now, and Delilah on the other side of
+Porter demanded, "What's the joke?"
+
+"There isn't any," said Porter; "it is all deadly earnest--for me, if
+not for Mary."
+
+And now a horse was down; there was a quick bugle-note, silence.  Like
+clockwork, everything had stopped.
+
+People were asking, "Is anybody hurt?"
+
+Barry looked down at Leila.  Then he leaned toward her father.  "I'm
+going to take this child outside," he said; "she's as white as a sheet.
+She doesn't like it.  We will meet you all later."
+
+Leila's color came back in the sunshine and air and she insisted that
+Barry should return to the hall.
+
+"I don't want you to miss it," she said, "just because I am so silly.
+I can stay in Porter's car and wait."
+
+"I don't want to see it--it's an old story to me."
+
+So they walked on toward Arlington, entering at last the gate which
+leads into that wonderful city of the nation's Northern dead, which was
+once the home of Southern hospitality.  In a sheltered corner they sat
+down and Barry smiled at Little-Lovely Leila.
+
+"Are you all right now, kiddie?"
+
+"Yes," but she did not smile.
+
+He bent down and peered through her veil.  "Take it off and let me look
+at your eyes."
+
+With trembling hands, she took out a pin or two and let it fall.
+
+"You've been crying."
+
+"Oh, Barry," the words were a cry--the cry of a little wounded bird.
+
+He stopped smiling.  "Blessed one, what is it?"
+
+"I can't tell you."
+
+"You must."
+
+"No."
+
+A low-growing magnolia hid them from the rest of the world; he put
+masterful hands on her shoulders and turned her face toward him--her
+little unhappy face.
+
+"Now tell me."
+
+She shook herself free.  "Don't, Barry."
+
+He flushed suddenly and sensitively.  "I know I'm not much of a fellow."
+
+She answered with a dignity which seemed to surmount her usual
+childishness, "Barry, if a man wants a woman to believe in him, he's
+got to make himself worthy of it."
+
+"Well," defiantly, "what have I done?"
+
+[Illustration: "What have I done?"]
+
+"Don't you know?"
+
+"No-o."
+
+"Then I'll tell you.  Yes, I _will_ tell you," with sudden courage.  "I
+was at Delilah's this morning, and I saw your picture, and what you had
+written on it----"
+
+He stared at her, with a sense of surging relief.  If it was only that
+he had to explain about--Lilah.  A smile danced in his eyes.
+
+"Well?"
+
+"I know you like to--play the game--but I didn't think you'd go as far
+as that----"
+
+"How far?"
+
+"Oh, you know."
+
+"I don't."
+
+"_Barry!_"
+
+"I don't.  I wish you'd tell me what you mean, Leila."
+
+"I will."  Her eyes were not reproachful now, they were blazing.  She
+had risen, and with her hands tucked into her muff, and her veil
+blowing about her flushed cheeks, she made her accusation.  "You wrote
+on that picture, 'To the One Girl--Forever.'  Is that the way you think
+of Delilah, Barry?"
+
+"No.  It is the way I think of you.  And how did that picture happen to
+be in Delilah's possession?  I sent it to you."
+
+"To me?"
+
+"Yes, I took it over to you yesterday, and left it with one of the
+maids--a new one.  I intended, to go in and give it to you, but when
+she said you had callers, I handed her the package----"
+
+"And I thought--oh, Barry, what else could I think?"
+
+She was so little and lovely in her tender contrition, that he flung
+discretion to the winds.  "You are to think only one thing," he said,
+passionately, "that I love you--not anybody else, not ever anybody
+else.  I haven't dared put it into words before.  I haven't dared ask
+you to marry me, because I haven't anything to offer you yet.  But I
+thought you--knew----"
+
+Her little hand went out to him.  "Oh, Barry," she whispered, "do you
+really feel that way about me?"
+
+"Yes.  More than I have said.  More than I can ever say."
+
+He drew her down beside him on the bench.  "Our world won't want us to
+get married, Leila; they will say that I am such a boy.  But you will
+believe in me, dear one?"
+
+"Always, Barry."
+
+"And you love me?"
+
+"Oh, you know it."
+
+"Yes, I know it," he said, in a moved voice, as he raised her hands and
+kissed them, "I know it--thank God."
+
+After the drill, Porter took the whole party back to Delilah's for tea.
+And when her guests had gone, and the black-haired beauty went to her
+flamingo room to dress for dinner, she found a note on her pincushion.
+
+
+"I have taken Barry's picture, because he meant it for me; it was a
+mistake, your getting it.  He left it with the new maid one day when
+you were at our house, and she handed it to you instead of to me--she
+mixed up our names, just as the maids used to mix them up at school.
+And I know you won't mind my taking it, because with you it is just a
+game to play at love--with Barry.  But it is my life, as you said that
+day in the Park.  And to-day Barry told me that it is his life, too.
+And I am very happy.  But this is our secret, and please let it be your
+secret until we let the rest of the world know----"
+
+
+Delilah, reading the childish scrawl, smiled and shook her head.  Then
+she went to the telephone and called up Leila.
+
+"Duckie," she said, "I'll dance at your wedding.  Only don't love him
+too much--no man is worth it."
+
+Then, triumphant from the other end of the line, came the voice of
+Perfect Faith--"Oh, Barry's worth it.  I've known him all my life,
+Lilah, and I've never had a single doubt."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER IX
+
+_In Which Roger Sallies Forth in the Service of a Damsel in Distress,
+and in Which He Meets Dragons Along the Way._
+
+
+In the weeks which followed the trip to Fort Myer, Mary found an
+astonishing change in her brother.  For the first time in his life he
+seemed to be taking things seriously.  He stayed at home at night and
+studied.  He gave up Jerry Tuckerman and the other radiant musketeers.
+She did not know the reason for the change but it brought her hope and
+happiness.
+
+Barry saw Leila often, but, as yet, no one but Delilah Jeliffe knew of
+the tie between them.
+
+"I ought to tell Dad," Leila had said, timidly; "he'd be very happy.
+It is what he has always wanted, Barry."
+
+"I must prove myself a man first," Barry told her, "I've squandered
+some of my opportunities, but now that I have you to work for, I feel
+as strong as a lion."
+
+They were alone in the General's library.  "It is because you trust me,
+dear one," Barry went on, "that I am strong."
+
+She slipped her little hand into his.  "Barry--it seems so queer to
+think that I shall ever be--your wife."
+
+"You had to be.  It was meant from the--beginning."
+
+"Was it, Barry?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And it will be to the end.  Oh, I shall always love you, dearly,
+dearly----"
+
+It was idyllic, their little love affair--their big love affair, if one
+judged by their measure.  It was tender, sweet, and because it was
+their secret, because there was no word of doubt or of distrust from
+those who were older and wiser, they brought to it all the beauty of
+youth and high hope.
+
+Thus the spring came, and the early summer, and Barry passed his
+examinations triumphantly, and came home one night and told Mary that
+he was going to marry Leila Dick.  As he told her his blue eyes
+beseeched her, and loving him, and hating to hurt him, Mary withheld
+the expression of her fears, and kissed him and cried a little on his
+shoulder, and Barry patted her cheek, and said awkwardly: "I know you
+think I'm not worthy of her, Mary.  But she will make a man of me."
+
+Alone, afterward, Mary wondered if she had been wise to acquiesce--yet
+surely, surely, love was strong enough to lift a man up to a woman's
+ideal--and Leila was such a--darling.
+
+She put the question to Roger Poole that night.  In these warmer days
+she and Roger had slipped almost unconsciously into close intimacy.  He
+read to her for an hour after dinner, when she had no other
+engagements, and often they sat in the old garden, she with her
+note-book on the arm of the stone bench--he at the other end of the
+bench, under a bush of roses of a hundred leaves.  Sometimes Aunt
+Isabelle was with them, with her fancy work, sometimes they were alone;
+but always when the hour was over, he would close his book and ascend
+to his tower, lest he might meet those who came later.  There were many
+nights that he thus escaped Porter Bigelow--nights when in the
+moonlight he heard the murmur of voices, mingled with the splash of the
+fountain; and there were other nights when gay groups danced upon the
+lawn to the music played by Mary just within the open window.
+
+Yet he thanked the gods for the part which he was allowed to play in
+her life.  He lived for that one hour out of the twenty-four.  He dared
+not think what a day would be if he were deprived of that precious
+sixty minutes.
+
+Now and then, when she had been very sure that no one would come, he
+had stayed with her in the moonlight, and the little bronze boy had
+smiled at him from the fountain, and there had been the fragrance of
+the roses, and Mary Ballard in white on the stone bench beside him,
+giving him her friendly, girlish confidences; she discussed problems of
+genteel poverty, the delightful obstinacies of Susan Jenks, the
+dominance of Aunt Frances.  She gave him, too, her opinions--those
+startling untried opinions which warred constantly with his prejudices.
+
+And now to-night--his advice.
+
+"Do you think love can change a man's nature?  Make a weak man strong,
+I mean?"
+
+He laid down his book.  "You ask that as if I could really answer it."
+
+"I think you can.  You always seem to be able to put yourself in the
+other person's place, and it--helps."
+
+"Thank you.  And now in whose place shall put myself?"
+
+"The girl's," promptly.
+
+He considered it.  "I should say that the man should be put to the test
+before marriage."
+
+"You mean that she ought to wait until she is sure that he is made
+over?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Oh, I feel that way.  But what if the girl believes in him?  Doesn't
+dream that he is weak--trusts him absolutely, blindly?  Should any one
+try to open her eyes?"
+
+"Sometimes it is folly to be wise.  Perhaps for her he will always be
+strong."
+
+"Then what's the answer?"
+
+"Only this.  That the man himself should make the test.  He should wait
+until he knows that he is worthy of her."
+
+She made a little gesture of hopelessness, just the lifting of her
+hands and letting them drop; then she spoke with a rush of feeling.
+
+"Mr. Poole--it is Barry and Leila.  Ought I to let them marry?"
+
+He smiled at her confidence in her ability to rule the destinies of
+those about her.
+
+"I fancy that you won't have anything to do with it.  He is of age, and
+you are only his sister.  You couldn't forbid the banns, you know."
+
+"But if I could convince him----"
+
+"Of what?" gravely.  "That you think him a boy?  Perhaps that would
+tend to weaken his powers."
+
+"Then I must fold my hands?"
+
+"Yes.  As things are now--I should wait."
+
+He did not explain, and she did not ask, for what she should wait.  It
+was as if they both realized that the test would come, and that it
+would come in time.
+
+And it did come.
+
+It was while Leila was on a trip to the Maine coast with her father.
+
+July was waning, and already an August sultriness was in the air.
+Those who were left in town were the workers--every one who could get
+away was gone.  Mary, with the care of her house on her hands, refused
+Aunt Frances' invitation for a month by the sea, and Aunt Isabelle
+declined to leave her.
+
+"I like it better here, even with the heat," she told her niece, "than
+running around Bar Harbor with Frances and Grace."
+
+Barry wrote voluminous letters to Leila, and received in return her
+dear childish scrawls.  But the strain of her absence began to tell on
+him.  He began to feel the pull toward old pleasures and distractions.
+Then one day Jerry Tuckerman arrived on the scene.  The next night, he
+and Barry and the other radiant musketeers motored over to Baltimore by
+moonlight.  Barry did not come home the next day, nor the next, nor the
+next.  Mary grew white and tense, and manufactured excuses which did
+not deceive Aunt Isabelle.  Neither of the tired pale women spoke to
+each other of their vigils.  Neither of them spoke of the anxiety which
+consumed them.
+
+Then one night, after a message had come from the office, asking for an
+explanation of Barry's absence; after she had called up the Country
+Club; after she had called up Jerry Tuckerman and had received an
+evasive answer; after she had exhausted all other resources, Mary
+climbed the steps to the Tower Rooms.
+
+And there, sitting stiff and straight in a high-backed chair, with her
+throat dry, her pulses throbbing, she laid the case before Roger Poole.
+
+"There is no one else--I can speak to--about it.  But Barry's been away
+for nearly a week from the office and from home--and nobody knows where
+he is.  And it isn't the first time.  It began before father died, and
+it nearly broke his heart.  You see, he had a brother--whose life was
+ruined because of this.  And Constance and I have done everything.
+There will be months when he is all right.  And then there'll be a
+week--away.  And after it, he is dreadfully depressed, and I'm afraid."
+She was shivering, though the night was hot.
+
+Roger dared not speak his sympathy.  This was not the moment.
+
+So he said, simply, "I'll find him, and when I find him," he went on,
+"it may be best not to bring him back at once.  I've had to deal with
+such cases before.  We will go into the country for a few days, and
+come back when he is completely--himself."
+
+"Oh, can you spare the time?"
+
+"I haven't taken any vacation, and--so there are still thirty days to
+my credit.  And I need an outing."
+
+He prepared at once to go, and when he had packed a little bag, he came
+down into the garden.  There was moonlight and the fragrance and the
+splashing fountain.  Roger was thrilled by the thought of his quest.
+It was as if he had laid upon himself some vow which was sending him
+forth for the sake of this sweet lady.  As Mary came toward him, he
+wished that he might ask for the rose she wore, as his reward.  But he
+must not ask.  She gave him her friendship, her confidence, and these
+were very precious things.  He must never ask for more--and so he must
+not ask for a rose.
+
+And now he was standing just below her on the terrace steps, looking up
+at her with his heart in his eyes.
+
+"I'll find him," he said, "don't worry."
+
+She reached out and touched his shoulder with her hand.  "How good you
+are," she said, wistfully, "to take all of this trouble for us.  I feel
+that I ought not to let you do it--and yet--we are so helpless, Aunt
+Isabelle and I."
+
+There was nothing of the boy about her now.  She was all clinging
+dependent woman.  And the touch of her hand on his shoulder was the
+sword of the queen conferring knighthood.  What cared he now for a rose?
+
+So he left her, standing there in the moonlight, and when he reached
+the bottom of the hill, he turned and looked back, and she still stood
+above him, and as she saw him turn, she waved her hand.
+
+In days of old, knights fought with dragons and cut off their heads,
+only to find that other heads had grown to replace those which had been
+destroyed.
+
+And it was such dragons of doubt and despair which Roger Poole fought
+in the days after he had found Barry.
+
+The boy had hidden himself in a small hotel in the down-town district
+of Baltimore.  Following one clue and then another, Roger had come upon
+him.  There had been no explanations.  Barry had seemed to take his
+rescue as a matter of course, and to be glad of some one into whose
+ears he could pour the litany of his despair.
+
+"It's no use, Poole.  I've fought and fought.  Father helped me.  And I
+promised Con.  And I thought that my love for Leila would make me
+strong.  But there's no use trying.  I'll be beaten.  It is in the
+blood.  I had an uncle who drank himself to death.  And back of him
+there was a grandfather."
+
+They had been together for two days.  Barry had agreed to Roger's plans
+for a trip to the country, and now they were under the trees on the
+banks of one of the little brackish rivers which flow into the
+Chesapeake.  They had fished a little in the early morning, then had
+brought their boat in, for Barry had grown tired of the sport.  He
+wanted to talk about himself.
+
+"It's no use," he said again; "it's in the blood."
+
+Roger was propped against a tree, his hat off, his dark hair blown back
+from his fine thin face.
+
+"Our lives," he said, "are our own.  Not what our ancestors make them."
+
+"I don't believe it," Barry said, flatly.  "I've fought a good fight,
+no one can say that I haven't.  And I've lost.  After this do you
+suppose that Mary will let me marry Leila?  Do you suppose the General
+will let me marry her?"
+
+"Will you let yourself marry her?"
+
+Barry's face flamed.  "Then you think I'm not worthy?"
+
+"It is what you think, Ballard, not what I think."
+
+Barry pulled up a handful of grass and threw it away, pulled up another
+handful and threw it away.  Then he said, doggedly, "I'm going to marry
+her, Poole; no one shall take her away from me."
+
+"And you call that love?"
+
+"Yes.  I can't live without her."
+
+Roger with his eyes on the dark water which slipped by the banks,
+taking its shadows from the darkness of the thick branches which bent
+above it said quietly, "Love to me has always seemed something bigger
+than that--it has seemed as if love--great love took into consideration
+first the welfare of the beloved."
+
+There was a long silence, out of which Barry said tempestuously, "It
+will break her heart if anything comes between us.  I'm not saying that
+because am a conceited donkey.  But she is such a constant little
+thing."
+
+Roger nodded.  "That's all the more reason why you've got to pull up
+now, Ballard."
+
+"But I've tried."
+
+"I knew a man who tried--and won."
+
+"How?" eagerly.
+
+"I met him in the pine woods of the South.  I was down there to recover
+from a cataclysm which had changed--my life.  This man had a little
+shack next to mine.  Neither of us had much money.  We lived literally
+in the open.  We cooked over fires in front of our doors.  We hunted
+and fished.  Now and then we went to town for our supplies, but most of
+our things we got from the schooner-men who drove down from the hills.
+My neighbor was married.  He had a wife and three children.  But he had
+come alone.  And he told me grimly that he should never go back until
+he went back a man."
+
+"Did he go back?"
+
+"Yes.  He conquered.  He looked upon his weakness not merely as a moral
+disease, but as a physical one.  And it was to be cured like any other
+disease by removing the cause.  The first step was to get away from old
+associations.  He couldn't resist temptation, so he had come where he
+was not tempted.  His occupation in the city had been mental, here it
+was largely physical.  He chopped wood, he tramped the forest, he
+whipped the streams.  And gradually he built up a self which was
+capable of resistance.  When he went back he was a different man, made
+over by his different life.  And he has cast out his--devil."
+
+The boy was visibly impressed.
+
+"His way might not be your way," Roger concluded, "but the fact that he
+fought a winning battle should give you hope."
+
+The next day they went back.  Mary met them as if nothing had happened.
+The basket of fish which they had brought to be cooked by Susan Jenks
+furnished an unembarrassing topic of conversation.  Then Barry went to
+his room, and Mary was alone with Roger.
+
+She had had a letter from him, and a message by telephone; thus her
+anxiety had been stilled.  And she was very grateful--so grateful that
+her voice trembled as she held out her hands to him.
+
+"How shall I ever thank you?" she said.
+
+He took her hands in his, and stood looking down at her.
+
+He did not speak at once, yet in those fleeting moments Mary had a
+strange sense of a question asked and answered.  It was as if he were
+calling upon her for something she was not ready to give--as if he were
+drawing from her some subconscious admission, swaying her by a force
+that was compelling, to reveal herself to him.
+
+And, as she thought these things, he saw a new look in her eyes, and
+her breath quickened.
+
+He dropped her hands.
+
+"Don't thank me," he said.  "Ask me again to do something for you.
+That shall be my reward."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER X
+
+_In Which a Scarlet Flower Blooms in the Garden; and in Which a Light
+Flares Later in the Tower._
+
+
+In September everybody came back to town, Porter Bigelow among the rest.
+
+He telephoned at once to Mary, "I'm coming up."
+
+She was radiant.  "Constance and Gordon arrived Monday, and I want you
+for dinner.  Leila will be here and the General and Aunt Frances and
+Grace from New York."
+
+His growl came back to her.  "And that means that I won't have a minute
+alone with you."
+
+"Oh, Porter--please.  There are so many other girls in the world--and
+you've had the whole summer to find one."
+
+"The summer has been a howling wilderness.  But mother has put me
+through my paces at the resorts.  Mary, I've learned such a lot of new
+dances to teach you."
+
+"Teach them to Grace."
+
+He groaned.  "You know what I think of Grace Clendenning."
+
+"Porter, she's beautiful.  She wears little black frocks with wide
+white collars and cuffs and looks perfectly adorable.  To-night she's
+going to wear a black tulle gown and a queer flaring black tulle
+head-dress, and with her red hair--you won't be able to drag your eyes
+from her."
+
+"I've enough red hair of my own," Porter informed her, "without having
+to look at Grace's."
+
+"I'll put you opposite her at dinner.  Come and see, and be conquered."
+
+Roger Poole was also invited to the home-coming dinner.  Mary had asked
+nobody's advice this time.  Of late Roger and Barry had been much
+together, and it was their friendship which Mary had exploited, when
+Constance, somewhat anxiously, had asked, on the day preceding the
+dinner, if she thought it was wise to include the lonely dweller in the
+Tower Rooms.
+
+"He's really very nice, Constance.  And he has been a great help to
+Barry."
+
+It was the first time that they had spoken of their brother.  And now
+Constance's words came with something of an effort.  "What of Barry,
+Mary?"
+
+"He is more of a man, Con.  He is trying hard for Leila's sake."
+
+"Gordon thinks they really ought not to be engaged."
+
+The sisters were in Mary's room, and Mary at her little desk was
+writing out the dinner list for Susan Jenks.  She looked up and laid
+down her pen.  "Then you've told Gordon?"
+
+"Yes.  And he says that Barry ought to go away."
+
+"Where?"
+
+"Far enough to give Leila a chance to get over it."
+
+"Do you think she would ever get over it, Con?"
+
+"Gordon thinks she would."
+
+Mary's head went up.  "I am not asking what Gordon thinks.  What do you
+think?"
+
+"I think as Gordon does."  Then as Mary made a little impatient
+gesture, she added, "Gordon is very wise.  At first it seemed to me
+that he was--harsh, in his judgment of Barry.  But he knows so much of
+men--and he says that here, in town, among his old associations--Barry
+will never be different.  And it isn't fair to Leila."
+
+Mary knew that it was not fair to Leila.  She had always known it.  Yet
+she was stubbornly resentful of the fact that Gordon Richardson should
+be, as it were, the arbiter of Barry's destiny.
+
+"Oh, it is all such a muddle, Con," she said, and put the question
+aside.  "We won't talk about it just now.  There is so much else to
+say--and it is lovely to have you back, dearest--and you are so lovely."
+
+Constance was curled up on Mary's couch, resting after her journey.  "I
+am so happy, Mary.  No woman knows anything about it, until she has had
+it for herself.  A man's strength is so wonderful--and Gordon's care of
+me--oh, Mary, if there were only another man in the world for you like
+Gordon I should be perfectly content."
+
+It was a fervent gentle echo of Aunt Frances' demand upon her, and Mary
+suppressing her raging jealousy of the man who had stolen her sister,
+asked somewhat wistfully, "Can you talk about me, for a minute, and
+forget that you have a husband?"
+
+"I don't need to forget Gordon," was the serene response.  "I can keep
+him in the back of my mind."
+
+Mary picked up her pen, and underscored "_Soup_"; then: "Constance,
+darling," she said, "would you feel dreadfully if I went to work?"
+
+"What kind of work, Mary?"
+
+"In one of the departments,--as stenographer."
+
+"But you don't know anything about it."
+
+"Yes, I do, I've been studying ever since you went away."
+
+"But why, Mary?"
+
+"Because--oh, can't you see, Constance?  I can't be sure of--Barry--for
+future support.  And I won't go with Aunt Frances.  And this house is
+simply eating up the little that father left us.  When you married, I
+thought the rental of the Tower Rooms would keep things going, but it
+won't.  And I won't sell the house.  I love every old stick and stone
+of it.  And anyhow, must I sit and fold my hands all the rest of my
+life just because I am a woman?"
+
+"But Mary, dear, you will marry--there's Porter."
+
+"Constance, I couldn't think of marriage that way--as a chance to be
+taken care of.  Oh, Con, I want to wait--for love."
+
+"Dearest, of course.  But you can live with us.  Gordon would never
+consent to your working--he thinks it is dreadful for a woman to have
+to fight the world."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "No, it wouldn't be fair to you.  It is never
+fair for an outsider to intrude upon the happiness of a home.  If your
+duet is ever to be a trio, it must not be with my big blundering voice,
+which could make only a discord, but a little piping one."
+
+She looked up to meet Constance's shy, self-conscious eyes.
+
+Mary flew to her, and knelt beside the couch.  "Darling, darling?"
+
+And now the list was forgotten and Susan Jenks coming up for it was
+made a party to that tremulous secret, and the fate of the dinner was
+threatened until Mary, coming back to realities, kissed her sister and
+went to her desk, and held herself sternly to the five following
+courses of the family dinner which was to please the palates of those
+fresh from Paris and London and from castles by the sea; and which was
+to test to the utmost the measure of Susan's culinary skill.
+
+At dinner the next night, Gordon Richardson looked often and intently
+at Roger Poole, and when, under the warmth of the September moon, the
+men drifted out into the garden to smoke, he said, "I've just placed
+you."
+
+Roger nodded.  "I thought you'd remember.  You were one of the younger
+boys at St. Martin's--you haven't changed much, but I couldn't be sure."
+
+Gordon hesitated.  "I thought I heard from someone that you entered the
+Church."
+
+"I had a church in the South--for three years."
+
+Gordon tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
+
+"And you gave it up?"
+
+"Yes.  I gave it up."
+
+That was all.  Not a word of the explanation for which he knew Gordon
+was waiting.  Nothing but the bare statement, "I gave it up."
+
+They talked a little of St. Martin's after that, of their boyish
+experiences.  But Roger was conscious that Gordon was weighing him, and
+asking of himself, "Why did he give it up?"
+
+The two men were sitting on the stone bench where Roger had so often
+sat with Mary.  The garden was showing the first signs of the season's
+blight.  Fading leaf and rustling vine had replaced the unspringing
+greenness and the fragrant growth of the summer.  There were, to be
+sure, dahlias and chrysanthemums and cosmos.  But the glory of the
+garden was gone.
+
+Then into the garden came Mary!
+
+She was wrapped in a thin silken, scarlet cloak that belonged to
+Constance.  As she passed through the broad band of light made by the
+street lamp.  Roger had a sudden memory of the flame-like blossoming of
+a certain slender shrub in the spring.  It had been the first of the
+flowers to bloom, and Mary had picked a branch for the vase on his
+table in the Tower sitting-room.
+
+"Constance wants you, Gordon," Mary said, as she came nearer; "some one
+has called up to arrange about a dinner date, and she can't decide
+without you."
+
+She sat down on the stone bench, and Roger, who had risen at her
+approach, stood under the hundred-leaved bush from which all the roses
+were gone.
+
+"Do you know," he said, without warning or preface, "that it seemed to
+me that, as you came into the garden, it bloomed again."
+
+Never before had he spoken thus.  And he said it again.  "When you
+came, it was as if the garden bloomed."
+
+He sat down beside her.  "Is any one going to claim you right away?
+Because if not, I have something I want to say."
+
+"Nobody will claim me.  At least I hope nobody will.  Grace Clendenning
+is telling Porter about the art of woman's dress.  She takes clothes so
+seriously, you know.  And Porter is interested in spite of himself.
+And Barry and Leila are on the terrace steps, looking at the moon over
+the river, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Isabelle and General Dick are in
+the house because of the night air, so there's really no one in the
+garden but you and me."
+
+"Just you--and--me----" he said, and stopped.
+
+She was plainly puzzled by his manner.  But she waited, her arms
+wrapped in her red cloak.
+
+At last he said, "Your brother-in-law and I went to school together."
+
+"Gordon?"
+
+"Yes.  St. Martin's.  He was younger than I, and we were not much
+together.  But I knew him.  And after he had puzzled over it, he knew
+me."
+
+"How interesting."
+
+"And he asked me something about myself, which I have never told you;
+which I want to tell you now."
+
+He was finding it hard to tell, with her eyes upon him, bright as stars.
+
+"Your brother said he had heard that I had gone into the Church--that I
+had a parish.  And what he had heard was true.  Until five years ago, I
+was rector of a church in the South."
+
+"_You_?"  That was all.  Just a little breathed note of incredulity.
+
+"Yes.  I wanted to tell you before he should have a chance to tell, and
+to think that I had kept from you something which you should have been
+told.  But I am not sure, even now, that it should be told."
+
+"But on Christmas Eve, you said that you did not believe----"
+
+"I do not."
+
+"And was that the reason you gave it up?"
+
+"No.  It is a long story.  And it is not a pleasant one.  Yet it seems
+that I must tell it."
+
+The wind had risen and blew a mist from the fountain.  The dead leaves
+rustled.
+
+Mary shivered.
+
+"Oh, you are cold," Roger said, "and I am keeping you."
+
+"No," she said, mechanically, "I am not cold.  I have my cloak.  Please
+go on."
+
+But he was not to tell his story then, for a shaft of strong light
+illumined the roadway, and a big limousine stopped at the foot of the
+terrace steps.  They heard Delilah Jeliffe's high laugh; then Porter's
+voice in the garden.  "Mary, are you there?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Grace Clendenning and her mother are going, and Delilah and Mr.
+Jeliffe have motored out to show you their new car."
+
+There was deep disapproval in his voice.  Mary rose reluctantly as he
+joined them.  "Oh, Porter, must I listen to Delilah's chatter for the
+rest of the evening?"
+
+"You made me listen to Grace's.  This is your punishment."
+
+"I don't want to be punished.  And I am very tired, Porter."
+
+This was a new word in Mary Ballard's vocabulary, and Porter responded
+at once to its appeal.
+
+"We will get rid of Delilah presently, and then Gordon and Constance
+will go with us for a spin around the Speedway.  That will set you up,
+little lady."
+
+Roger stood silent by the fountain.  Through the veil of mist the
+little bronze boy seemed to smile maliciously.  During all the years in
+which he had ridden the dolphin, he had seen men and women come and go
+beneath the hundred-leaved bush.  And he had smiled on all of them, and
+by their mood they had interpreted his smiles.
+
+Roger's mood at this moment was one of impotent rebellion at Porter's
+air of proprietorship, and it was with this air intensified that, as
+Mary shivered again Porter drew her wrap about her shoulders, fastening
+the loop over the big button with expert fingers and said, carelessly,
+"Are you coming in with us, Poole?"
+
+"No.  Not now."
+
+Above the head of the little bronze boy, level glance met level glance,
+as in the moonlight the men surveyed each other.
+
+Then Mary spoke.
+
+"Mr. Poole, I am so sorry not to hear the rest of the--story."
+
+"You shall hear it another time."
+
+She hesitated, looking up at him.  It was as if she wanted to speak but
+could not, with Porter there to listen.
+
+So she smiled, with eyes and lips.  Just a flash, but it warmed his
+heart.
+
+Yet as she went away with Porter, and passed once more through the
+broad band of the street lamp's light which made of her scarlet cloak a
+flaming flower, he looked after her wistfully, and wondered if when she
+had heard what he had to tell she would ever smile at him like that
+again.
+
+Delilah, fresh from a triumphal summer, was in the midst of a laughing
+group on the porch.
+
+As Mary came up, she was saying: "And we have taken a dear old home in
+Georgetown.  No more glare or glitter.  Everything is to be subdued to
+the dullness of a Japanese print--pale gray and dull blue and a splash
+of black.  This gown gives the keynote."
+
+She was in gray taffeta, with a girdle of soft old blue, and a string
+of black rose-beads.  No color was on her cheeks--there was just the
+blackness of her hair and the whiteness of her fine skin.
+
+"It's great," Barry said,
+
+Delilah nodded.  "Yes.  It has taken me several years to find out some
+things."  She looked at Grace and smiled.  "It didn't take you years,
+did it?"
+
+Grace smiled back.  The two women were as far apart as the poles.
+Grace represented the old Knickerbocker stock, Lilah, a later grafting.
+Grace studied clothes because it pleased her to make fashions a fine
+art.  Delilah studied to impress.  But each one saw in the other some
+similarity of taste and of mood, and the smile that they exchanged was
+that of comprehension.
+
+Aunt Frances did not approve of Delilah.  She said so to Grace going
+home.
+
+"My dear, they live on the West Side--in a big house on the Drive.  My
+calling list stops east of the Park."
+
+Grace shrugged.  "Mother," she said, "I learned one thing in
+Paris--that the only people worth knowing are the interesting people,
+and whether they live on the Drive or in Dakota, I don't care.  And
+we've an awful lot of fossils in our set."
+
+Mrs. Clendenning shifted the argument.  "I don't see why General Dick
+allows Leila to be so much with Miss Jeliffe."
+
+"They were at school together, and the General and Mr. Jeliffe are old
+friends."
+
+Her mother shrugged.  "Well, I hope that if we stay here for the winter
+that they won't be forced upon us.  Washington is such a city of
+climbers, Grace."
+
+Grace let the matter drop there.  She had learned discretion.  She and
+her mother viewed life from different angles.  To attempt to reconcile
+these differences would mean, had always meant, strife and controversy,
+and in these later years, Grace had steered her course toward serenity.
+She had refused to be blown about by the storms of her mother's
+prejudices.  In the midst of the conventionality of her own social
+training, she had managed to be untrammeled.  In this she was more like
+Mary than the others of her generation.  And she loved Mary, and wanted
+to see her happy.
+
+"Mother," she asked abruptly, "who is this Roger Poole?"
+
+Mrs. Clendenning told her that he was a lodger in the Tower Rooms--a
+treasury clerk--a mere nobody.
+
+Grace challenged the last statement.  "He's a brilliant man," she said.
+"I sat next to him at dinner.  There's a mystery somewhere.  He has an
+air of authority, the ease of a man of the world."
+
+"He is in love with Mary," said Mrs. Clendenning, "and he oughtn't to
+be in the house."
+
+"But Mary isn't in love with him--not yet."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+In the darkness Grace smiled.  How did she know?  Why, Mary in love
+would be lighted up by a lamp within!  It would burn in her cheeks,
+flash in her eyes.
+
+"No, Mary's not in love," she said.
+
+"She ought to marry Porter Bigelow."
+
+"She ought not to marry Porter.  Mary should marry a man who would
+utilize all that she has to give.  Porter would not utilize it."
+
+"Now what do you mean by that?" said Mrs. Clendenning, impatiently.
+"Don't talk nonsense, Grace."
+
+"Mary Ballard," Grace analyzed slowly, "is one of the women who if she
+had been born in another generation would have gone singing to the
+lions for the sake of an ideal; she would have led an army, or have
+loaded guns behind barricades.  She has courage and force, and the need
+of some big thing in her life to bring out her best.  And Porter
+doesn't need that kind of wife.  He doesn't want it.  He wants to
+worship.  To kneel at her feet and look up to her.  He would require
+nothing of her.  He would smother her with tenderness.  And she doesn't
+want to be smothered.  She wants to lift up her head and face the
+beating winds."
+
+Mrs. Clendenning, helpless before this burst of eloquence on the part
+of her usually restrained daughter, asked, tartly, "How in the world do
+you know what Porter wants or Mary needs?"
+
+"Perhaps," said Grace, slowly, "it is because I am a little like Mary.
+But I am older, and I've learned to take what the world gives.  Not
+what I want.  But Mary will never be content with compromise, and she
+will always go through life with her head up."
+
+Mary's head was up at that very moment, as with cheeks flaming and eyes
+bright, she played hostess to her guests, while in the back of her
+brain were beating questions about Roger Poole.
+
+Freed from the somewhat hampering presence of Mrs. Clendenning, Delilah
+was letting herself go, and she drew even from grave Gordon Richardson
+the tribute of laughter.
+
+"It was an artist that I met at Marblehead," she said, "who showed me
+the way.  He told me that I was a blot against the sea and the sky,
+with my purples and greens and reds and yellows.  I will show you his
+sketches of me as I ought to be.  They opened my eyes; and I'll show
+you my artist too.  He's coming down to see whether I have caught the
+idea."
+
+And now she moved down the steps.  "Father will be furious if I keep
+him waiting any longer.  He's crazy over the car, and when he drives,
+it is a regular Tam O'Shanter performance.  I won't ask any of you to
+risk your necks with him yet, but if you and the General are willing to
+try it, Leila, we will take you home."
+
+"I haven't fought in fifty battles to show the white feather now," said
+the General, and Leila chirruped, "I'd love it," and presently, with
+Barry in devoted attendance, they drove off.
+
+Mary, waiting on the porch for Porter to telephone for his own car,
+which was to take them around the Speedway, looked eagerly toward the
+fountain.  The moon had gone under a cloud, and while she caught the
+gleam of the water, the hundred-leaved bush hid the bench.  Was Roger
+Poole there?  Alone?
+
+She heard Porter's voice behind her.  "Mary," he said, "I've brought a
+heavy wrap.  And the car will be here in a minute."
+
+Aunt Isabelle had given him the green wrap with the fur.  She slipped
+into it silently, and he turned the collar up about her neck.
+
+"I'm not going to have you shivering as you did in that thin red
+thing," he said.
+
+She drew away.  It was good of him to take care of her, but she didn't
+want his care.  She didn't want that tone, that air of possession.
+She was not Porter's.  She belonged to herself.  And to no one else.
+She was free.
+
+With the quick proud movement that was characteristic of her, she
+lifted her head.  Her eyes went beyond Porter, beyond the porch, to the
+Tower Rooms where a light flared, suddenly.  Roger Poole was not in the
+garden; he had gone up without saying "Good-night."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XI
+
+_In Which Roger Writes a Letter; and in Which a Rose Blooms Upon the
+Pages of a Book._
+
+
+_In the Tower Rooms, Midnight----_
+
+It is best to write it.  What I might have said to you in the garden
+would have been halting at best.  How could I speak it all with your
+clear eyes upon me--all the sordid history of those years which are
+best buried, but whose ghosts to-night have risen again?
+
+If in these months--this year that I have lived in these rooms, I have
+seemed to hide that which you will now know, it was not because I
+wanted to set myself before you as something more than I am.  Not that
+I wished to deceive.  It was simply that the thought of the old life
+brought a surging sense of helplessness, of hopelessness, of rebellion
+against fate, Having put it behind me, I have not wished to talk about
+it--to think about it--to have it, in all its tarnished tragedy, held
+up before your earnest, shining eyes.
+
+For you have never known such things as I have to tell you, Mary
+Ballard.  There has been sorrow in your life, and, I have seen of late,
+suffering for those you love.  But, as yet, you have not doffed an
+ideal.  You have not bowed that brave young head of yours.  You have
+never yet turned your back upon the things which might have been.
+
+As I have turned mine.  I wish sometimes that you might have known me
+before the happening of these things which I am to tell you.  But I
+wish more than all, that I might have known you.  Until I came here, I
+did not dream that there was such a woman in the world as you.  I had
+thought of women first, as a chivalrous boy thinks, later, as a
+disillusioned man.  But of a woman like a young and ardent soldier, on
+fire to fight the winning battles of the world--of such a woman I had
+never dreamed.
+
+But this year has taught me.  I have seen you pushing away from you the
+things which would have charmed most women  I have seen you pushing
+away wealth, and love for the mere sake of loving.  I have seen you
+willing to work that you might hold undimmed the ideal which you had
+set for your womanhood.  Loving and love-worthy, you have not been
+willing to receive unless you could give, give from the fulness of that
+generous nature of yours.  And out of that generosity, you have given
+me your friendship.
+
+And now; as I write the things which your clear eyes are to read, I am
+wondering whether that friendship will be withdrawn.  Will you when you
+have heard of my losing battle, find anything in me that is
+worthy--will there be anything saved out of the wreck of your thought
+of me?
+
+Well, here it is, and you shall judge:
+
+I will skip the first years, except to say that my father was one of
+the New York Pooles who moved South after the Civil War.  My mother was
+from Richmond.  We were prosperous folk, with an unassailable social
+position.  My mother, gracious and charming, is little more than a
+memory; she died when I was a child.  My father married again, and died
+when I was in college.  There were three children by this second
+marriage, and when the estate was settled, only a modest sum fell to my
+share.
+
+I had been a lonely little boy--at college I was a dreamy, idealistic
+chap, with the saving grace of a love of athletics.  Your
+brother-in-law will tell you something of my successes on our school
+team.  That was my life--the day in the open, the nights among my books.
+
+As time went on, I took prizes in oratory--there was a certain
+commencement, when the school went wild about me, and I was carried on
+the shoulders of my comrades.
+
+There seemed open to me the Church and the law.  Had I lived in a
+different environment, there would have been also the stage.  But I saw
+only two outlets for my talents, the Church, toward which my tastes
+inclined, and the law, which had been my father's profession.
+
+At last I chose the Church.  I liked the thought of my scholarly
+future--of the power which my voice might have to sway audiences and to
+move them.
+
+I am putting it all down, all of my boyish optimism, conceit--whatever
+you may choose to call it.
+
+Yet I am convinced of this, and my success of a few years proved it,
+that had nothing interfered with my future, I should have made an
+impression on ever-widening circles.
+
+But something came to interfere.
+
+In my last years at the Seminary, I boarded at a house where I met
+daily the daughter of the landlady.  She was a little thing, with
+yellow hair and a childish manner.  As I look back, I can't say that I
+was ever greatly attracted to her.  But she was a part of my life for
+so long that gradually there grew up between us a sort of good
+fellowship.  Not friendship in the sense that I have understood it with
+you; there was about it nothing of spiritual or of mental congeniality.
+But I played the big brother.  I took her to little dances; and to
+other college affairs.  I gave both to herself and to her widowed
+mother such little pleasures as it is possible for a man to give to two
+rather lonely women.  There were other students in the house, and I was
+not conscious that I was doing anything more than the rest of them.
+
+Then there came a day when the yellow-haired child---shall I call her
+Kathy?--wanted to go to a pageant in a neighboring town.  It was to
+last two days, and there was to be a night parade, and floats and a
+carnival.  Many of the students were going, and it was planned that
+Kathy and I should take a morning train on the first day, so that we
+might miss nothing.  Kathy's mother would come on an afternoon train,
+and they would spend the night at a certain quiet hotel, while I was to
+go with a lot of fellows to another.
+
+Well, when that afternoon train arrived, the mother was not on it.  Nor
+did she come.  Without one thought of unconventionality, I procured a
+room for Kathy at the place where she and her mother would have
+stopped.  Then I left her and went to the other hotel to join my
+classmates.  But carnival-mad; they did not come in at all, and went
+back on an express which passed through the town in the early morning.
+
+When Kathy and I reached home at noon, we found her mother white and
+hysterical.  She would listen to no explanations.  She told me that I
+should have brought Kathy back the night before--that she had missed
+her train and thus her appointment with us.  And she told me that I was
+in honor bound to marry Kathy.
+
+As I write it, it seems such melodrama.  But it was very serious then.
+I have never dared analyze the mother's motives.  But to my boyish eyes
+her anxiety for her daughter's reputation was sincere, and I accepted
+the responsibility she laid upon me.
+
+Well, I married her.  And she put her slender arms about my neck and
+cried and thanked me.
+
+She was very sweet and she was my--wife--and when I was given a parish
+and had introduced her to my people, they loved her for the white
+gentleness which seemed purity, and for acquiescent amiability which
+seemed--goodness.
+
+I have myself much to blame in this--that I did not love her.  All
+these years I have known it.  But that I was utterly unawakened I did
+not know.  Only in the last few months have I learned it.
+
+Perhaps she missed what I should have given her.  God knows.  And He
+only knows whether, if I had adored her, worshiped her, things would
+have been different.
+
+I was very busy.  She was not strong.  She was left much to herself.
+The people did not expect any great efforts on her part--it was enough
+that she should look like a saint--that she should lend herself so
+perfectly to the ecclesiastical atmosphere.
+
+And now comes the strange, the almost unbelievable part.  One morning
+when we had been married two years, I left the house to go to the
+office of one of my most intimate friends in the parish--a doctor who
+lived near us, who was unmarried, and who had prescribed now and then
+for my wife.  As I went out, Kathy asked me to return to him a magazine
+which she handed me.  It was wrapped and tied with a string.  I had to
+wait in the doctor's office, and I unwrapped the magazine and untied
+the string, and between the leaves I found a note to--my friend.
+
+Why do people do things like that?  She might have telephoned what she
+had to say; she might have written it, and have sent it through the
+mails.  But she chose this way, and let me carry to another man the
+message of her love for him.
+
+For that was what the note told.  There was no doubt, and I walked out
+of the office and went home.  In other times with other manners, I
+might have killed him.  If I had loved her, I might; I cannot tell.
+But I went home.
+
+She seemed glad that I knew.  And she begged that I would divorce her
+and let her marry him.
+
+Dear Clear Eyes, who read this, what do you think of me?  Of this story?
+
+And what did I think?  I who had dreamed, and studied and preached, and
+had never--lived?  I who had hated the sordid?  I who had thought
+myself so high?
+
+As I married her, so I gave her a divorce.  And as I would not have her
+name and mine smirched, I separated myself from her, and she won her
+plea on the ground of desertion.
+
+Do you know what that meant in my life?  It meant that I must give up
+my church.  It meant that I must be willing to bear the things which
+might be said of me.  Even if the truth had been known, there would
+have been little difference, except in the sympathy which would have
+been vouchsafed me as the injured party.  And I wanted no man's pity.
+
+And so I went forth, deprived of the right to lift up my voice and
+preach--deprived of the right to speak to the thousands who had packed
+my church.  And now--what meaning for me had the candles on the altar,
+what meaning the voices in the choir?  I had sung too, in the light of
+the holy candles, but it was ordained that my voice must be forever
+still.
+
+I fought my battle out one night in the darkness of my church.  I
+prayed for light and I saw none.  Oh, Clear Eyes, why is light given to
+a man whose way is hid?  I went forth from that church convinced that
+it was all a sham.  That the lights meant nothing; that the music meant
+less, and that what I had preached had been a poetic fallacy.
+
+Some of the people of my church still believe in me.  Others, if you
+should meet them, would say that she was a saint, and that I was the
+sinner.  Well, if my sin was weakness, I confess it.  I should,
+perhaps, never have married her; but having married her, could I have
+held her mine against her will?
+
+She married him.  And a year after, she died.  She was a frail little
+thing, and I have nothing harsh to say of her.  In a sense she was a
+victim, first of her mother's ambition, next of my lack of love, and
+last of all, of his pursuit.
+
+Perhaps I should not have told you this.  Except my Bishop, who asked
+for the truth, and to whom I gave it, and whose gentleness and kindness
+are never-to-be-forgotten things--except for him, you are the only one
+I have ever told; the only one I shall ever tell.
+
+But I shall tell you this, and glory in the telling.  That if I had a
+life to offer of honor and of achievement, I should offer it now to
+you.  That if I had met you as a dreaming boy, I would have tried to
+match my dreams to yours.
+
+You may say that with the death of my wife things have changed.  That I
+might yet find a place to preach, to teach--to speak to audiences and
+to sway them.
+
+But any reentrance into the world means the bringing up of the old
+story--the question--the whispered comment.  I do not think that I am a
+coward.  For the sake of a cause, I could face death with courage.  But
+I cannot face questioning eyes and whispering lips.
+
+So I am dedicated for all my future to mediocrity.  And what has
+mediocrity to do with you, who have "never turned your back, but
+marched face forward"?
+
+And so I am going away.  Not so quickly that there will be comment.
+But quickly enough to relieve you of future embarrassment in my behalf.
+
+I do not know that you will answer this.  But I know that whatever your
+verdict, whether I am still to have the grace of your friendship or to
+lose it forever, I am glad to have lived this one year in the Tower
+Rooms.  I am glad to have known the one woman who has given me back--my
+boyish dreams of all women.
+
+And now a last line.  If ever in all the years to come you should have
+need of me, I am at your service.  I shall count nothing too hard that
+you may ask.  I am whimsically aware that in the midst of all this
+darkness and tragedy my offer is that of the Mouse to the Lion.  But
+there came a day when the Mouse paid its debt.  Ask me to pay mine, and
+I will come--from the ends of the earth.
+
+
+This was the letter which Mary found the next morning on her desk in
+the little office room into which Roger had been shown on the night of
+the wedding.  She recognized his firm script and found herself
+trembling as she touched the square white envelope.
+
+But she laid the letter aside until she had given Susan her orders,
+until she had given other orders over the telephone, until she had
+interviewed the furnace man and the butcher's boy, and had written and
+mailed certain checks.
+
+Then she took the letter with her to her own room, locked the door and
+read it.
+
+Constance, knocking a little later, was let in, and found her sister
+dressed and ready for the street.
+
+"I've a dozen engagements," Mary said.  She was drawing on her gloves
+and smiling.  She was, perhaps, a little pale, but that the Mary of
+to-day was different from the Mary if yesterday was not visible from
+outward signs.
+
+"I am going first to the dressmaker, to see about having that lovely
+frock you bought me fitted for Delilah's tea dance; then I'll meet you
+at Mrs. Carey's luncheon.  And after that will be our drive with
+Porter, and the private view at the Corcoran, then two teas, and later
+the dinner at Mrs. Bigelow's.  I'm afraid it will be pretty strenuous
+for you, Constance."
+
+"I sha'n't try to take in the teas.  I'll come home and lie down before
+I have to dress for dinner."
+
+As she followed out her programme for the day, Mary was conscious that
+she was doing it well.  She made conscientious plans with her
+dressmaker, she gave herself gayly to the light chatter of the
+luncheon; during the drive she matched Porter's exuberant mood with her
+own, she viewed the pictures and made intelligent comments.
+
+After the view, Constance went home in Porter's car, and Mary was left
+at a house on Dupont Circle.  Porter's eyes had begged that she would
+let him come with her, but she had refused to meet his eyes, and had
+sent him off.
+
+As she passed through the glimmer of the golden rooms, she bowed and
+smiled to the people that she knew, she joked with Jerry Tuckerman, who
+insisted on looking after her and getting her an ice.  And then, as
+soon as she decently could, she got away, and came out into the open
+air, drawing a long breath, as one who has been caged and who makes a
+break for freedom.
+
+She did not go to the other tea.  All day she had lived in a dream,
+doing that which was required of her and doing it well.  But from now
+until the time that she must go home and dress for dinner, she would
+give herself up to thoughts of Roger Poole.
+
+She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly
+came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.
+At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat
+back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from
+interruption.
+
+And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter
+stood out.
+
+"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning
+the voices in the choir?  I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,
+but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."
+
+This to Mary was the great tragedy--his loss of courage, his loss of
+faith--his acceptance of a passive future.  Resolutely she had
+conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had
+read of that sordid marriage and its sequence.  Resolutely she had
+risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole
+of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had
+fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.
+
+Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;
+life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.
+
+To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not
+thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for
+him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it.  There
+had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she
+had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love
+come to me--at last?"  But she had not answered it.  She knew that she
+would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which
+was, as yet, hidden from him.
+
+But how could she best help him to find that meaning?  Dimly she felt
+that it was to be through her that he would find it.  And he was going
+away.  And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of
+hope.
+
+It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.
+
+She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands.  She had the simple
+faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had
+asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that
+her prayers would be answered.
+
+It was late when she left the church.  And she was late in getting
+home.  All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no
+light in the Tower Rooms.  Roger, who dined down-town, would not come
+until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.
+
+As she passed through the garden, she saw that on a bush near the
+fountain bloomed a late rose.  She stooped and picked it, and flitting
+in the dusk down the path, she entered the door which led to the Tower
+stairway.
+
+And when, an hour later, Roger Poole came into the quiet house, weary
+and worn from the strain of a day in which he had tried to read his
+letter with Mary's eyes, he found his room dark, except for the flicker
+of the fire.
+
+Feeling his way through the dimness, he pulled at last the little chain
+of the electric lamp on his table.  The light at once drew a circle of
+gold on the dark dull oak.  And within that circle he saw the answer to
+his letter.
+
+Wide open and illumined, lay John Ballard's old Bible.  And across the
+pages, fresh and fragrant as the friendship which she had given him,
+was the late rose which Mary had picked in the garden.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XII
+
+_In Which Mary and Roger Have Their Hour; and in Which a Tea-Drinking
+Ends in What Might Have Been a Tragedy._
+
+
+To Mary, possessed and swayed by the letter which she had received from
+Roger, it seemed a strange thing that the rest of the world moved
+calmly and unconsciously forward.
+
+The letter had come to her on Saturday.  On Sunday morning everybody
+went to church.  Everybody dined afterward, unfashionably, at two
+o'clock, and later everybody motored out to the Park.
+
+That is, everybody but Mary!
+
+She declined on the ground of other things to do.
+
+"There'll be five of you anyhow with Aunt Frances and Grace," she said,
+"and I'll have tea for you when you come back."
+
+So Constance and Gordon and Aunt Isabelle had gone off, and with Barry
+at Leila's, Mary was at last alone.
+
+Alone in the house with Roger Poole!
+
+Her little plans were all made, and she went to work at once to execute
+them.
+
+It was a dull afternoon, and the old-fashioned drawing-room, with its
+dying fire, and pale carpet, its worn stuffed furniture and pallid
+mirrors looked dreary.
+
+Mary had Susan Jenks replenish the fire.  Then she drew up to it one of
+the deep stuffed chairs and a lighter one of mahogany, which matched
+the low tea-table which was at the left of the fireplace.  She set a
+tapestry screen so that it cut off this corner from the rest of the
+room and from the door.
+
+Gordon had brought, the night before, a great box of flowers, and there
+were valley lilies among them.  Mary put the lilies on the table in a
+jar of gray-green pottery.  Then she went up-stairs and changed the
+street costume which she had worn to church for her old green velvet
+gown.  When she came down, the fire was snapping, and the fragrance of
+the lilies made sweet the screened space--Susan had placed on the
+little table a red lacquered tray, and an old silver kettle.
+
+Susan had also delivered the note which Mary had given her to the Tower
+Rooms.
+
+Until Roger came down Mary readjusted and rearranged everything.  She
+felt like a little girl who plays at keeping house.  Some new sense
+seemed waked within her, a sense which made her alive to the coziness
+and comfort and seclusion of this cut-off corner.  She found herself
+trying to see it all through Roger Poole's eyes.
+
+When he came at last around the corner of the screen, she smiled and
+gave him her hand.
+
+"This is to be our hour together.  I had to plan for it.  Did you ever
+feel that the world was so full of people that there was no corner in
+which to be--alone?"
+
+As he sat down in the big chair, and the light shone on his face, she
+saw how tired he looked, as if the days and the nights since she had
+seen him, had been days and nights of vigil.
+
+She felt a surging sense of sympathy, which set her trembling as she
+had trembled when she had touched his letter as it had laid on her
+desk, but when she spoke her voice was steady.
+
+"I am going to make you a cup of tea--then we can talk."
+
+He watched her as she made it, her deft hands unadorned, except by the
+one quaint ring, the whiteness of her skin set on by her green gown,
+the whiteness of her soul symbolized by the lilies.
+
+He leaned forward and spoke suddenly.  "Mary Ballard," he said, "if I
+ever reach paradise, I shall pray that it may be like this, with the
+golden light and the fragrance, and you in the midst of it."
+
+Earnestly over the lilies, she looked at him.  "Then you believe in
+Paradise?"
+
+"I should like to think that in some blessed future state I should come
+upon you in a garden of lilies."
+
+"Perhaps you will."  She was smiling, but her hand shook.
+
+She felt shy, almost tongue-tied.  She made him his tea, and gave him a
+cup; then she spoke of commonplaces, and the little kettle boiled and
+bubbled and sang as if there were no sorrow or sadness in the whole
+wide world.
+
+She came at last timidly to the thing she had to say.
+
+"I don't quite know how to begin about your letter.  You see when I
+read it, it wasn't easy for me at first to think straight.  I hadn't
+thought of you as having any such background to your life.  Somehow the
+outlines I had filled in were--different.  I am not quite sure what I
+had thought--only it had been nothing like--this."
+
+"I know.  You could not have been expected to imagine such a past."
+
+"Oh, it is not your past which weighs so heavily--on my heart; it is
+your future."
+
+Her eyes were full of tears.  She had not meant to say it just that
+way.  But it had come--her voice breaking on the last words.
+
+He did not speak at once, and then he said: "I have no right to trouble
+you with my future."
+
+"But I want to be troubled."
+
+"I shall not let you.  I shall not ask that of your friendship.  Last
+night when I came back to my rooms I found a rose blooming upon the
+pages of a book.  It seemed to tell me that I had not lost your
+friendship; and you have given me this hour.  This is all I have a
+right to ask of your generosity."
+
+She moved the jar of lilies aside, so that there might be nothing
+between them.  "If I am your friend, I must help you," she said, "or
+what would my friendship be worth?"
+
+"There is no help," he said, hurriedly, "not in the sense that I think
+you mean it.  My past has made my future.  I cannot throw myself into
+the fight again.  I know that I have been called all sorts of a coward
+for not facing life.  But I could face armies, if it were anything
+tangible.  I could do battle with a sword or a gun or my fists, if
+there were a visible adversary.  But whispers--you can't kill them; and
+at last they--kill you."
+
+"I don't want you to fight," she said, and now behind the whiteness of
+her skin there was a radiance.  "I don't want you to fight.  I want you
+to deliver your message."
+
+"What message?"
+
+"The message that every man who stands in the pulpit must have for the
+world, else he has no right to stand there."
+
+"You think then that I had no message?"
+
+"I think," and now her hand went out to him across the table, as if she
+would soften the words, "I think that if you had felt yourself called
+to do that one thing, that nothing would have swayed you from it--there
+are people not in the churches, who never go to church, who want what
+you have to give--there are the highways and hedges.  Oh, surely, not
+all of the people worth preaching to are the ones in the pews."
+
+She flung the challenge at him directly.
+
+And he flung it back to her, "If I had had such a woman as you in my
+life----"
+
+"Oh, don't, _don't_."  The radiance died.  "What has any woman to do
+with it?  It is you--yourself, who must stand the test."
+
+After the ringing words there was dead silence.  Roger sat leaning
+forward, his eyes not upon her, but upon the fire.  In his white face
+there was no hint of weakness; there was, rather, pride, obstinacy, the
+ruggedness of inflexible purpose.
+
+"I am afraid," he said at last, "that I have not stood the test."
+
+Her clear eyes met his squarely.  "Then meet it now."
+
+For a moment he blazed.  "I know now what you think of me, that I am a
+man who has shirked."
+
+"You know I do not think that."
+
+He surrendered.  "I do know it.  And I need your help."
+
+Shaken by their emotion, they became conscious that this was indeed
+their hour.  She told him all that she had dreamed he might do.  Her
+color came and went as she drew the picture of his future.  Some of the
+advice she gave was girlish, impracticable, but through it all ran the
+thread of her faith to him.  She felt that she had the solution.  That
+through service he was to find--God.
+
+It was a wonderful hour for Roger Poole.  An hour which was to shine
+like a star in his memory.  Mary's mind had a largeness of vision, the
+ability to rise above the lesser things in order to reach the greater,
+which seemed super-feminine.  It was not until afterward when he
+reviewed what they had said, that he was conscious that she had placed
+the emphasis on what he was to do.  Not once had she spoken of what had
+been done--not once had she spoken of his wife.
+
+"You mustn't bury yourself.  You must find a way to reach first one
+group and then another.  And after a time you'll begin to feel that you
+can face the world."
+
+He winced.  As she put it into words, he began to see himself as others
+must have seen him.  And the review was not a pleasant one.
+
+In a sense that hour with Mary Ballard in the screened space by the
+fire was the hour of Roger Poole's spiritual awakening.  He realized
+for the first time that he had missed the meaning of the candles on the
+altar, the voices in the choir; he had missed the knowledge that one
+must spend and be spent in the service of humanity.
+
+"I must think it over," he said.  "You mustn't expect too much of me
+all at once."
+
+"I shall expect--everything."
+
+As she spoke and smiled, and it seemed to him that his old garment of
+fear slipped from him--as if he were clothed in the shining armor of
+her confidence in him.
+
+They had little time to talk after that, for it was not long before
+they heard without the bray of a motor horn.
+
+Roger rose at once.
+
+"I must go before they come," he said.
+
+But she laid her hand upon his arm.  "No," she said, "you are not to
+go.  You are never going to run away from the world again.  Set aside
+the screen, please--and stay."
+
+Porter, picked up on the way, came in with the others, to behold that
+glowing corner, and those two together.
+
+With his red crest flaming, he advanced upon them.
+
+"Somebody said 'tea.'  May I have some, Mary?"
+
+"When the kettle boils."  She had risen, and was holding out her hand
+to him.
+
+As the two men shook hands, Porter was conscious of some subtle change
+in Roger.  What had come over the man--had he dared to make love to
+Mary?
+
+And Mary?  He looked at her.
+
+She was serenely filling her tea ball.  She had lighted the lamp
+beneath her kettle, and the blue flame seemed to cast her still further
+back among the shadows of her corner.
+
+Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances had come back with the rest for tea.
+Grace's head, with Porter's, gave the high lights of the scene.  Barry
+had nicknamed them the "red-headed woodpeckers," and the name seemed
+justified.
+
+While Porter devoted himself to Grace, however, he was acutely
+conscious of every movement of Mary's.  Why had she given up her
+afternoon to Roger Poole?  He had asked if he might come, and she had
+said, "after four," and now it was after four, and the hour which she
+would not give him had been granted to this lodger in the Tower Rooms.
+
+It has been said before that Porter was not a snob, but to him Mary's
+attitude of friendliness toward this man, who was not one of them, was
+a matter of increasing irritation.  What was there about this tall thin
+chap with the tired eyes to attract a woman?  Porter was not conceited,
+but he knew that he possessed a certain value.  Of what value in the
+eyes of the world was Roger Poole--a government clerk, without
+ambition, handsome in his dark way, but pale and surrounded by an air
+of gloom?
+
+But to-night it was as if the gloom had lifted.  To-night Roger shone
+as he had shone on the night of the Thanksgiving party--he seemed
+suddenly young and splendid--the peer of them all.
+
+It came about naturally that, as they drank their tea, some one asked
+him to recite.
+
+"Please "--it was Mary who begged.
+
+Porter jealously intercepted the look which flashed between them, but
+could make nothing of it.
+
+"The Whittington one is too long," Roger stated, "and I haven't
+Pittiwitz for inspiration--but here's another."
+
+Leaning forward with his eyes on the fire, he gave it.
+
+It was a man's poem.  It was in the English of the hearty times of Ben
+Jonson and of Kit Marlowe--and every swinging line rang true.
+
+  "What will you say when the world is dying?
+  What when the last wild midnight falls,
+  Dark, too dark for the bat to be flying
+  Round the ruins of old St. Paul's?
+  What will be last of the lights to perish?
+  What but the little red ring we knew,
+  Lighting the hands and the hearts that cherish
+  A fire, a fire, and a friend or two!"
+
+  CHORUS:
+  "Up now, answer me, tell me true.
+  What will be last of the stars to perish?
+  --The fire that lighteth a friend or two."
+
+
+As the last brave verse was ended, Gordon Richardson said, "By Jove,
+how it comes back to me--you used to recite Poe's 'Bells' at school."
+
+Roger laughed.  "Yes.  I fancy I made them boom toward the end."
+
+"You used to make me shiver and shake in my shoes."
+
+Aunt Frances' voice broke in crisply, "What do you mean, Gordon; were
+you at school with Mr. Poole?"
+
+"Yes.  St. Martin's, Aunt Frances."
+
+The name had a magic effect upon Mrs. Clendenning; the boys of St.
+Martin's were of the elect.
+
+"Poole?" she said.  "Are you one of the New York Pooles?"
+
+Roger nodded.  "Yes.  With a Southern grafting--my mother was a Carew."
+
+He was glad now to tell it.  Let them follow what clues they would.  He
+was ready for them.  Henceforth nothing was to be hidden.
+
+"I am going down next week," he continued, "to stay for a time with a
+cousin of my mother's--Miss Patty Carew.  She lives still in the old
+manor house which was my grandfather's--she hadn't much but poverty and
+the old house for an inheritance, but it is still a charming place."
+
+Aunt Frances was intent, however, on the New York branch of his family
+tree.
+
+"Was your grandfather Angus Poole?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+Grace was wickedly conscious of her mother's state of mind.  No one
+could afford to ignore any descendant of Angus Poole.  To be sure, a
+second generation had squandered the fortune he had left, but his name
+was still one to conjure with.
+
+"I never dreamed----" said Aunt Frances.
+
+"Naturally," said Roger, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.  "I am
+afraid I'm not a credit to my hard-headed financier of a grandfather."
+
+It seemed to Mary that for the first time she was seeing him as he
+might have been before his trouble came upon him.  And she was swept
+forward to the thought of what he might yet be.  She grew warm and rosy
+in her delight that he should thus show himself to her people.  She
+looked up to find Porter's accusing eyes fixed on her; and in the grip
+of a sudden shyness, she gave herself again to her tea-making.
+
+"Surely some of you will have another cup?"
+
+It developed that Aunt Frances would, and that the water was cold, and
+that the little lamp was empty of alcohol.
+
+Mary filled it, and, her hand shaking from her inward excitement, let
+the alcohol overflow on the tray and on the kettle frame.  She asked
+for a match and Gordon gave her one.
+
+Then, nobody knew how it happened!  The flames seemed to sweep up in a
+blue sheet toward the lace frills in the front of Mary's gown.  It
+leaped toward her face.  Constance screamed.  Then Roger reached her,
+and she was in his arms, her face crushed against the thickness of his
+coat, his hands snatching at her frills.
+
+It was over in a moment.  The flames were out.  Very gently, he loosed
+his arms.  She lay against his shoulder white and still.  Her face was
+untouched, but across her throat, which the low collar had left
+exposed, was a hot red mark.  And a little lock of hair was singed at
+one side, her frills were in ruins.
+
+He put her into a chair, and they gathered around her--a solicitous
+group.  Porter knelt beside her.  "Mary, Mary," he kept saying, and she
+smiled weakly, as his voice broke on "Contrary Mary."
+
+Gordon had saved the table from destruction.  But the flame had caught
+the lilies, crisping them, and leaving them black.  Constance was
+shaken by the shock, and Aunt Frances kept asking wildly, "How did it
+happen?"
+
+"I spilled the alcohol when I filled it," Mary said.  "It was a silly
+thing to do--if I had had on one of my thinner gowns----"  She
+shuddered and stopped.
+
+"I shall send you an electric outfit to-morrow," Porter announced.
+"Don't fool with that thing again, Mary."
+
+Roger stood behind her chair, with his arms folded on the top and said
+nothing.  There was really nothing for him to say, but there were many
+things to think.  He had saved that dear face from flame or flaw, the
+dear eyes had been hidden against his shoulder--his fingers smarted
+where he had clutched at her burning frills.
+
+Porter Bigelow might take possession of her now, he might give her
+electric outfits, he might call her by her first name, but it had not
+been Porter who had saved her from the flames; it had not been Porter
+who had held her in his arms.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIII
+
+_In Which the Whole World is at Sixes and Sevens, and in Which Life is
+Looked Upon as a Great Adventure._
+
+
+It had been decided that, for a time at least, Gordon and Constance
+should stay with Mary.  In the spring they would again go back to
+London.  Grace Clendenning and Aunt Frances were already installed for
+the winter at their hotel.
+
+The young couple would occupy the Sanctum and the adjoining room, and
+Mary was to take on an extra maid to help Susan Jenks.
+
+In all her planning, Mary had a sense of the pervasiveness of Gordon
+Richardson.  With masculine confidence in his ability, he took upon
+himself not only his wife's problems, but Mary's.  Mary was forced to
+admit, even while she rebelled, that his judgments were usually wise.
+Yet, she asked herself, what right had an outsider to dictate in
+matters which pertained to herself and Barry?  And what right had he to
+offer her board for Constance?  Constance, who was her very own?
+
+But when she had indignantly voiced her objection to Gordon, he had
+laughed.  "You are like all women, Mary," he had said, "and of course I
+appreciate your point of view and your hospitality.  But if you think
+that I am going to let my wife stay here and add to your troubles and
+expense without giving adequate compensation, you are vastly mistaken.
+If you won't let us pay, we won't stay, and that's all there is to it."
+
+Here was masculine firmness against which Mary might rage impotently.
+After all, Constance was Gordon's wife, and he could carry her off.
+
+"Of course," she said, yielding stiffly, "you must do as you think
+best."
+
+"I shall," he said, easily, "and I will write you a check now, and you
+can have it to settle any immediate demands upon your exchequer.  I
+shall be away a good deal, and I want Constance to be with you and Aunt
+Isabelle.  It is a favor to me, Mary, to have her here.  You mustn't
+add to my obligations by making me feel too heavily in your debt."
+
+He smiled as he said it, and Gordon had a nice smile.  And presently
+Mary found herself smiling back.
+
+"Gordon," she said, in a half apology, "Porter calls me Contrary Mary.
+Maybe I am--but you see, Constance was my sister before she was your
+wife."
+
+He leaned back in his chair and looked at her.  "And you've had twenty
+years more of her than I--but please God, Mary, I am going to have
+twenty beautiful years ahead of me to share with her--I hope it may be
+three times twenty."
+
+His voice shook, and in that moment Mary felt nearer to him than ever
+before.
+
+"Oh, Gordon," she said, "I'm a horrid little thing.  I've been jealous
+because you took Constance away from me.  But now I'm glad you--took
+her, and I hope I'll live to dance at your--golden wedding."  And then,
+most unexpectedly, she found herself sobbing, and Gordon was patting
+her on the back in a big-brotherly way, and saying that he didn't blame
+her a bit, and that if anybody wanted to take Constance away from him,
+they'd have to do it over his dead body.
+
+Then he wrote the check, and Mary took it, and in the knowledge of his
+munificence, felt the relief from certain financial burdens.
+
+Before he left her, Gordon, hesitating, referred gravely to another
+subject.
+
+"And it will be better for you to have Constance here if Barry goes
+away."
+
+"Barry?" breathlessly.
+
+"Yes.  Don't you think he ought to go, Mary?"
+
+"No," she said, stubbornly; "where could he go?"
+
+"Anywhere away from Leila.  He mustn't marry that child.  Not yet--not
+until he has proved himself a man."
+
+The blow hit her heavily.  Yet her sense of justice told her that he
+was right.
+
+"I can't talk about it," she said, unsteadily; "Barry is all I have
+left."
+
+He rose.  "Poor little girl.  We must see how we can work it out.  But
+we've got to work it out.  It mustn't drift."
+
+Left alone, Mary sat down at her desk and faced the future.  With Roger
+gone, and Barry going----
+
+And the Tower Rooms empty!
+
+She shivered.  Before her stretched the darkness and storms of a long
+winter.  Even Constance's coming would not make up for it.  And yet a
+year ago Constance had seemed everything.
+
+She crossed the hall to the dining-room and looked out of the window.
+The garden was dead.  The fountain had ceased to play.  But the little
+bronze boy still flung his gay defiance to wind and weather.
+
+Pittiwitz, following her, murmured a mewing complaint.  Mary picked her
+up; since Roger's going the gray cat had kept away from the emptiness
+of the upper rooms.
+
+With the little purring creature hugged close, Mary reviewed her
+worries--the world was at sixes and sevens.  Even Porter was proving
+difficult.  Since the Sunday when Roger had saved her from the fire,
+Porter had adopted an air of possession.  He claimed her at all times
+and seasons; she had a sense of being caught in a web woven of kindness
+and thoughtfulness and tender care, but none the less a web which held
+her fast and against her will.
+
+Whimsically it came to her that the four men in her life were opposed
+in groups of two: Gordon and Porter stood arrayed on the side of
+logical preferences; Barry and Roger on the side of illogical
+sympathies.
+
+Gordon had conveyed to her, in rather subtle fashion, his disapproval
+of Roger.  It was only in an occasional phrase, such as "Poor Poole,"
+or "if all of his story were known."  But Mary had grasped that, from
+the standpoint of her brother-in-law, a man who had failed to fulfil
+the promise of his youth might be dismissed as a social derelict.
+
+As for Barry--the situation with regard to him had become acute.  His
+first disappearance after the coming of Constance had resulted in
+Gordon's assuming the responsibility of the search for him.  He had
+found Barry in a little town on the upper Potomac, ostensibly on a
+fishing trip, and again there was a need for fighting dragons.
+
+But Gordon did not fight with the same weapons as Roger Poole.  His
+arguments had been shrewd, keen, but unsympathetic.  And the result had
+been a strained relation between him and Barry.  The boy had felt
+himself misunderstood.  Gordon had sat in judgment.  Constance had
+tearfully agreed with Gordon, and Mary, torn between her sense of
+Gordon's rightness, and her own championship of Barry, had been strung
+to the point of breaking.
+
+She turned from the window, and went up-stairs slowly.  In the Sanctum,
+Constance and Aunt Isabelle were sewing.  At last Aunt Isabelle had
+come into her own.  She spent her days in putting fine stitches into
+infinitesimal garments.  There was about her constantly the perfume of
+the sachet powder with which she was scenting the fine lawn and lace
+which glorified certain baskets and bassinets.  When she was not sewing
+she was knitting--little silken socks for a Cupid's foot, little warm
+caps, doll's size; puffy wool blankets on big wooden needles.
+
+The Sanctum had taken on the aspect of a bower.  Here Constance sat
+enthroned--and in her gentleness reminded Mary more and more of her
+mother.  Here was always the sweetness of the flowers with which Gordon
+kept his wife supplied; here, too, was an atmosphere of serene waiting
+for a supreme event.
+
+Mary, entering with Pittiwitz in her arms, tried to cast away her
+worries on the threshold.  She must not be out of tune with this
+symphony.  She smiled and sat down beside Constance.  "Such lovely
+little things," she said; "what can I do?"
+
+It seemed that there was a debate on, relative to the suitability of
+embroidery as against fine tucks.
+
+Mary settled it.  "Let me have it," she said; "I'll put in a few tucks
+and a little embroidery--I shall be glad to have my fingers busy."
+
+"You're always so occupied with other things," Constance complained,
+gently.  "I don't see half enough of you."
+
+"You have Gordon," Mary remarked.
+
+"You say that as if it really made a difference."
+
+"It does," Mary murmured.  Then, lest she trouble Constance's gentle
+soul, she added bravely, "But Gordon's a dear.  And you're a lucky
+girl."
+
+"I know I am."  Constance was complacent.  "And I knew you'd recognize
+it, when you'd seen more of Gordon."
+
+Mary felt a rising sense of rebellion.  She was not in a mood to hear a
+catalogue of Gordon's virtues.  But she smiled, bravely.  "I'll admit
+that he is perfect," she said; "we won't quarrel over it, Con, dear."
+
+But to herself she was saying, "Oh, I should hate to marry a perfect
+man."
+
+All the morning she sat there, her needle busy, and gradually she was
+soothed by the peace of the pleasant room.  The world seemed brighter,
+her problems receded.
+
+Just before luncheon was announced came Aunt Frances and Grace.
+
+They brought gifts, wonderful little things, made by the nuns of
+France--sheer, exquisite, tied with pale ribbons.
+
+"We are going from here to Leila's," Aunt Frances informed them; "we
+ordered some lovely trousseau clothes and they came with these."
+
+Trousseau clothes?  Leila's?  Mary's needle pricked the air for a
+moment.
+
+"They haven't set the day, you know, Aunt Frances; it will be a long
+engagement."
+
+"I don't believe in long engagements," Aunt Frances' tone was final;
+"they are not wise.  Barry ought to settle down."
+
+Nobody answered.  There was nothing to say, but Mary was oppressed by
+the grim humor of it all.  Here was Aunt Frances bearing garments for
+the bride, while Gordon was planning to steal the bridegroom.
+
+She stood up.  "You better stay to lunch," she said; "it is Susan
+Jenks' hot roll day, and you know her rolls."
+
+Aunt Frances peeled off her long gloves.  "I hoped you'd ask us, we are
+so tired of hotel fare."
+
+Grace laughed.  "Mother is of old New York," she said, "and better for
+her are hot rolls and chops from her own kitchen range, than caviar and
+truffles from the hands of a hotel chef--in spite of all of our globe
+trotting, she hasn't caught the habit of meals with the mob."
+
+Grace went down with Mary, and the two girls found Susan Jenks with the
+rolls all puffy and perfect in their pans.
+
+"There's plenty of them," she said to Mary, "an' if the croquettes give
+out, you can fill up on rolls."
+
+"Susan," Grace said, "when Mary gets married will you come and keep
+house for me?"
+
+Susan smiled.  "Miss Mary ain't goin' to git married."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"She ain't that kind.  She's the kind that looks at a man and studies
+about him, and then she waves him away and holds up her head, and says,
+'I'm sorry, but you won't do.'"
+
+The two girls laughed.  "How did you get that idea of me, Susan?" Mary
+asked.
+
+"By studyin' you," said Susan.  "I ain't known you all your life for
+nothin'.
+
+"Now Miss Constance," she went on, as she opened the oven and peeped
+in, "Miss Constance is just the other way.  'Most any nice man was
+bound to git her.  An' it was lucky that Mr. Gordon was the first."
+
+"And what about me?" was Grace's demand.
+
+"Go 'way," said Susan, "you knows yo'se'f, Miss Grace.  You bats your
+eyes at everybody, and gives your heart to nobody."
+
+"And so Mary and I are to be old maids--oh, Susan."
+
+"They don't call them old maids any more," Susan said, "and they ain't
+old maids, not in the way they once was.  An old maid is a woman who
+ain't got any intrus' in life but the man she can't have, and you all
+is the kin' that ain't got no intrus' in the men that want you."
+
+They left her, laughing, and when they reached the dining-room they sat
+down on the window-seat; where Mary had gazed out upon the dead garden
+and the bronze boy.
+
+"And now," said Grace, "tell me about Roger Poole."
+
+"There isn't much to tell.  He's given up his position in the Treasury,
+and he's gone down to his cousin's home for a while.  He's going to try
+to write for the magazines; he thinks that stories of that section will
+take."
+
+"He's in love with you, Mary.  But you're not in love with him--and you
+mustn't be."
+
+"Of course not.  I'm not going to marry, Grace."
+
+Grace gave her a little squeeze.  "You don't know what you are going to
+do, darling; no woman does.  But I don't want you to fall in love with
+anybody yet.  Flit through life with me for a time.  I'll take you to
+Paris next summer, and show you my world."
+
+"I couldn't, unless I could pay my own way."
+
+"Oh, Mary, what makes you fight against anybody doing anything for you?"
+
+"Porter says it is my contrariness---but I just can't hold out my hands
+and let things drop into them."
+
+"I know--and that's why you won't marry Porter Bigelow."
+
+Mary flashed at her a surprised and grateful glance.  "Grace," she
+said, solemnly, "you're the first person who has seemed to understand."
+
+"And I understand," said Grace, "because to me life is a Great
+Adventure.  Everything that happens is a hazard on the highway--as yet
+I haven't found a man who will travel the road with me; they all want
+to open a gate and shut me in and say, 'Stay here.'"
+
+Mary's eyes were shining.  "I feel that, too."
+
+Grace kissed her.  "You'd laugh, Mary, if I told the dream which is at
+the end of my journey."
+
+"I sha'n't laugh--tell me."
+
+There was a rich color in Grace's cheeks.  In her modish frock of the
+black which she affected, and which was this morning of fine serge set
+on by a line of fur at hem and wrist, and topped by a little hat of
+black velvet which framed the vividness of her glorious hair, she
+looked the woman of the world, so that her words gained strength by
+force of contrast.
+
+"Nobody would believe it," she prefaced, "but, Mary Ballard, some day
+when I'm tired of dancing through life, when I am weary of the
+adventures on the road, I'm going to build a home for little children,
+and spend my days with them."
+
+So the two girls dreamed dreams and saw visions of the future.  They
+sang and soared, they kissed and confided.
+
+"Whatever comes, life shall never be commonplace," Mary declared, and
+as the bell rang and she went to the table, she felt that now nothing
+could daunt her--the hard things would be merely a part of a glorious
+pilgrimage.
+
+Susan's hot rolls were pronounced perfect, and Susan, serenely
+conscious of it, banished the second maid to the kitchen and waited on
+the table herself.
+
+Here were five women of one clan.  She understood them all, she loved
+them all.  She gave even to Aunt Frances her due.  "They all holds
+their heads high," she had confided on one occasion to Roger Poole,
+"and Miss Frances holds hers so high that she almost bends back, but
+she knows how to treat the people who work for her, and she's always
+been mighty good to me."
+
+Mary's mood of exaltation lasted long after her guests had departed.
+She found herself singing as she climbed the stairs that night to her
+room.  And it was with this mood still upon her that she wrote to Roger
+Poole.
+
+Her letter, penned on the full tide of her new emotion, was like wine
+to his thirsty soul.  It began and ended formally, but every line
+throbbed with hope and courage, and responding to the note which she
+had struck, he wrote back to her.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIV
+
+_In Which Mary Writes From the Tower Rooms; and in Which Roger Answers
+From Among the Pines._
+
+
+_The Tower Rooms._
+
+Dear Mr. Poole:
+
+I have taken your rooms for mine, and this is my first evening in them.
+Pittiwitz is curled up under the lamp.  She misses you and so do I.
+Even now, it seems as if your books ought to be on the table; and that
+I ought to be talking to you instead of writing.
+
+I liked your letter.  It seemed to tell me that you were hopeful and at
+home.  You must tell me about the house and your Cousin Patty--about
+everything in your life--and you must send me your first story.
+
+Here everything is the same.  Constance will be with me until spring,
+and we are to have a quiet Thanksgiving and a quiet Christmas with just
+the family, and Leila and the General.  Porter Bigelow goes to Palm
+Beach to be with his mother.  I don't know why we always count him in
+as one of the family except that he never waits for an invitation, and
+of course we're glad to have him.  Mother and father used to feel sorry
+for him; he was always a sort of "Poor-little-rich-boy" whose money cut
+him out from lots of good times that families have who don't live in
+such formal fashion as Mr. and Mrs. Bigelow seem to enjoy.
+
+As soon as Constance leaves, I am going to work.  I haven't told any
+one, for when I hinted at it, Constance was terribly upset, and asked
+me to live with her and Gordon.  Grace wants me to go to Paris with
+her; Barry and Leila have stated that I can have a home with them.
+
+But I don't want a home with anybody.  I want to live my own life, as I
+have told you.  I want to try my wings.  I don't believe you quite like
+the idea of my working.  Nobody does, not even Grace Clendenning,
+although Grace seems to understand me better than any one else.
+
+Grace and I have been talking to-day about life as a great adventure.
+And it seems to me that we have the right idea.  So many people go
+through life as just something to be endured, but I want to make things
+happen, or rather, if big things don't happen, I want to see in the
+little things something that is interesting.  I don't believe that any
+life need be common-place.  It is just the way we look at it.  I'm
+copying these words which I read in one of your books; perhaps you've
+seen them, but anyhow it will tell you better than I what I mean.
+
+"But life is a great adventure, and the worst of all fears is the fear
+of living.  There are many forms of success, many forms of triumph.
+But there is no other success that in any way approaches that which is
+open to most of the many men and women who have the right idea.  These
+are the men and the women who see that it is the intimate and homely
+things that count most.  They are the men and women who have the
+courage to strive for the happiness which comes only with labor and
+effort and self-sacrifice, and only to those whose joy in life springs
+in part from power of work and sense of duty."
+
+Aren't those words like a strong wind blowing from the sea?  I just
+love them.  And I know you will.  I am so glad that I can talk to you
+of such things.  Everybody has to have a friend who can understand--and
+that's the fine thing about our friendship--that we both have things to
+overcome, and that our letters can be reports of progress.
+
+Of course the things which I have to overcome are just little fussy
+woman things--but they are big to me because I am breaking away from
+family traditions.  All the women our household have followed the
+straight and narrow path of conventional living.  Even Grace does it,
+although she rebels inwardly--but Aunt Frances keeps her to it.  Once
+Grace tried to be an artist, and she worked hard in Paris, until Aunt
+Frances swooped down and carried her off--Grace still speaks of that
+time in Paris as her year out of prison.  You see she worked hard and
+met people who worked, too, and it interested her.  She had a studio
+apartment, and was properly chaperoned by a little widow who went with
+her and shared her rooms.
+
+But Aunt Frances popped in on them suddenly one day and found a
+Bohemian party.  There wasn't anything wrong about it, Grace says, but
+you know Aunt Frances!  She has never ceased to talk about the frumpy
+crowd she met there.  She hated the students in their velvet coats and
+the women with their poor queer clothes.  And Grace loved them.  But
+she's given up the idea of ever living there again.  She says you can't
+do a thing twice and have it the same.  I don't know.  I only know that
+Grace may seem frivolous on the outside, but that underneath she is
+different.  She has taken up advanced ideas about women, and she says
+that I have them naturally, and that she didn't expect such a thing in
+Washington where everybody stops to think what somebody else is going
+to say.  But I haven't arrived at the point where I am really
+interested in Suffrage and things like that.  Grace says that I must
+begin to look beyond my own life, and perhaps when I get some of my own
+problems settled, I will.  And then I shall be taking up the problems
+of the girls in factories and the girls in laundries and the girls in
+the big shops, as Grace is.  She says that she may live like a
+bond-slave herself, but she'd like to help other women to be free.
+
+And now I must tell you about Delilah Jeliffe.  She had a house-warming
+last week.  The old house in Georgetown is a dream.  Delilah hasn't a
+superfluous or gorgeous thing in it.  Everything is keyed to the
+old-family note.  Some of the things are even shabby.  She has done
+away with flamingo colors, and her monkeys with the crystal ball and
+the peacock screen.  She has little stools in her drawing-room with
+faded covers of canvas work, and she has samplers and cracked
+portraits, and the china doesn't all match.  There isn't a sign of "new
+richness" in the place.  She keeps colored servants, and doesn't wear
+rings, and her gowns are frilly flowing white things which make her
+look like one of those demure grandmotherly young persons of the early
+sixties.
+
+Her little artist is a charming blond who doesn't come up to her
+shoulders, and Delilah hangs on every word he says.  For the moment he
+obscures all the other men on her horizon.  He made sketches of the way
+every room in her house ought to look.  And what seems to be the result
+of years of formal pleasant living really is the result of the months
+of hunting and hard work which he and Delilah have put in.  He even
+indicates the flowers she shall wear, and those which are to bloom next
+summer in her garden.  She affects heliotrope, and on the night of her
+house-warming she carried a tight bunch of it with a few pink rosebuds.
+
+Really, in her new role Delilah is superb.  And, people are beginning
+to notice her and to call on her.  Even in this short time she has been
+invited to some very good houses.  She has a new way with her eyes, and
+drops her lashes over them, and is very still and lovely.
+
+Do you remember her leopard skins of last year?  Well, now she wears
+moleskins--a queer dolman-shaped wrap of them, and a little hat with a
+dull blue feather, and she drapes a black lace veil over the hat and
+looks like a duchess.
+
+Grace Clendenning says that Delilah and her artist will achieve a
+triumph if they keep on.  They aren't trying to storm society, they are
+trying to woo it, and out of it the artist gets the patronage of the
+people whom he meets through Delilah.  Perhaps it will end by Delilah's
+marrying him.  But Grace says not.  She says that Delilah simply
+squeezes people dry, like so many oranges, and when she has what she
+wants, she throws them aside.
+
+Yet Grace and Delilah get along very well together.  Grace has always
+made a study of clothes, because it is the only way in which she can
+find an outlet for her artistic tastes.  And she is interested in
+Delilah's methods.   She says that they are masterly.
+
+But I am forgetting to tell you what Delilah said of you.  It was on
+the night of her house-warming.  She asked about you, and when I said
+that you had gone south to get atmosphere for some stories you were
+writing, she said:
+
+"Do you know it came to me yesterday, while I was in church, where I
+had seen him.  It was the same text, and that was what brought it back.
+He was _preaching_, my dear.  I remember that I sat in the front pew
+and looked up at him, and thought that I had never heard such a voice;
+and now, tell me why he has given it up, and why he is burying himself
+in the South?"
+
+At first I didn't know just what to say, and then I thought it best to
+tell the truth.  So I looked straight at her, and said: "He made a most
+unhappy marriage, and gave up his life-work.  But now his wife is dead,
+and some day he may preach again."  Was it wrong for me to say that?  I
+do hope you are going to preach; somehow I feel that you will.  And
+anyhow while people need never know the details of your story, they
+will have to know the outlines.  It seemed to me that the easiest way
+was to tell it and have it over.
+
+Of course Gordon has asked some questions, and I have told what I
+thought should be told.  I hope that you won't feel that I have been
+unwise.  I thought it best to start straight, and then there would be
+nothing to hide.
+
+And now may I tell you a little bit about Barry?  They want him to go
+away--back to England with Gordon and Constance.  You see Gordon looks
+at it without sentiment.  Gordon's sentiment stops at Constance.  He
+thinks that Barry should simply give Leila up, go away, and not come
+back until he can show a clear record.
+
+Of course I know that Gordon is right.  But I can't bear it--that's why
+I haven't been able to face things with quite the courage that I
+thought I could.  But since my talk with Grace, I am going to look at
+it differently.  I shall try to feel that Barry's going is best, and
+that he must ride away gallantly, and come back with trumpets blowing
+and flags flying.
+
+And that's the way you must some day come into your own.--I like to
+think about it.  I like to think about victory and conquest, instead of
+defeat and failure.  Somehow thinking about a thing seems to bring it,
+don't you think?
+
+Oh, but this is such a long letter, and it is gossipy, and scrappy.
+But that's the way we used to talk, and you seemed to like it.
+
+And now I'll say "Good-night."  Pittiwitz waked up a moment ago, and
+walked across this sheet, and the blot is where she stepped on a word.
+So that's her message.  But my message is Psalms 27:14.  You can look
+it up in father's Bible--I am so glad you took it with you.  But
+perhaps you don't have to look up verses; you probably know everything
+by heart.  Do you?
+
+Sincerely ever,
+
+MARY BALLARD.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+My good little friend:
+
+I am not going to try to tell you what your letter meant to me.  It was
+the bluebird's song in the spring, the cool breeze in the desert,
+sunlight after storm--it was everything that stands for satisfaction
+after a season of discomfort or of discontent.
+
+Yet, except that I miss the Tower Rooms, and miss, too, the great
+happiness I found in pursuing our friendship at close range, I should
+have no reason here either for discomfort or lack of content--if I feel
+the world somewhat barren, it is not because of what I have found, but
+because of what I have brought with me.
+
+I like to think of you in the Tower Rooms.  You always belonged there,
+and I felt like a usurper when I came and discovered that all of your
+rosy belongings had been moved down-stairs and my staid and stiff
+things were in their place.  It is queer, isn't it, the difference in
+the atmosphere made by a man and by a woman.  A man dares not surround
+himself with pale and pretty colors and delicate and dainty things,
+lest he be called effeminate--perhaps that's why men take women into
+their lives, so that they may have the things which they crave without
+having their masculinity questioned.
+
+Yet the atmosphere which seems to fit you best is not merely one of
+rosiness and prettiness; it is rather that of sunshine and
+out-of-doors.  When you talk or write to me I have the sensation of
+being swept on and on by your enthusiasms--I seem to fly on strong
+wings--the quotation which you gave is the utterance of some one else,
+but you unerringly selected, and passed it on to me, and so in a sense
+made it your own.  I am going to copy it and illumine it, and keep it
+where I can see it at all times.
+
+I find that I do not travel as fast as you toward my future.  I have
+shut myself up for many years.  I have been so sure that all the wine
+of life was spilled, that the path ahead of me was dreary, that I
+cannot see myself at all with trumpets blowing, with flags flying and
+the rest of it.  Perhaps I shall some day--and at least I shall try,
+and in the trying there will be something gained.  Some day, perhaps, I
+shall reach the upper air where you soar--perhaps I shall "mount as an
+eagle."
+
+Your message----!  Dear child--do you know how sweet you are?  I don't
+know all the verses--but that one I do know.  Yet I had let myself
+forget, and you brought it back to me with all its strong assurance.
+
+Your decision that it was best to tell what there is to tell, to let
+nothing be hidden, is one which I should have made long ago.  Only of
+late have I realized that concealment brings in its train a thousand
+horrors.  One lives in fear, dreading that which must inevitably come.
+Yet I do not think I must be blamed too much.  I was beaten and bruised
+by the knowledge of my overthrow.  I only wanted to crawl into a hole
+and be forgotten.
+
+Even now, I find myself unfolding slowly.  I have lived so long in the
+dark, and the light seems to blind my eyes!
+
+It is strange that I should have remembered Delilah Jeliffe, but not
+strange that she should have remembered me; for I stood alone in the
+pulpit, but she was one of a crowd.  Since your letter, I have been
+thinking back, and I can see her as she sat reading in the front pew,
+big and rather fine with her black hair and her bold eyes.  I think
+that perhaps the thing which made me remember her was the fleeting
+thought that her type stood usually for the material in woman, and I
+wondered if in her case outward appearances were as deceptive as they
+were in my wife--with her saint's eyes, and her distorted moral vision.
+Perhaps I was intuitively right, and that beneath Delilah Jeliffe's
+exterior there is a certain fineness, and that these funny fads of
+dress and decorations are merely in some way her striving toward the
+expression of her real self.
+
+What you tell me of your talk with your cousin Grace interests me very
+much.  I fancy she is more womanly than she is willing to admit.  Yet
+she should marry.  Every woman should marry, except you--who are going
+to be my friend!  There peeps out my selfishness--but I shall let it
+stand.
+
+No, I don't like the idea that you must work.  I don't want you to try
+your wings.  I want you to sit safe in your nest in the top of the
+Tower, and write letters to me!
+
+Labor, office drudgery, are things which sap the color from a woman's
+cheeks, and strength from her body.  She grows into a machine, and you
+are a bird, to fly and light on the nearest branch and sing!
+
+But now you will want to know something of my life, and of the house
+and of Cousin Patty.
+
+The house has suffered from the years of poverty since the War.  Yet it
+has still about it something of the dignity of an ancient ruin.  It is
+a big frame structure with the Colonial pillars which belong to the
+period of its building.  Many of the rooms are closed.  My own suite is
+on the second floor--Cousin Patty's opposite, and adjoining her rooms
+those of an old aunt who is a pensioner.
+
+There is little of the old mahogany which once made the rooms stately,
+and little of the old silver to grace the table.  Cousin Patty's
+poverty is combined, happily, with common sense.  She has known the
+full value of her antiques, and has preferred good food to family
+traditions.  Yet there are the old portraits and in her living-room a
+few choice pieces.  Here we have an open fire, and here we sit o'
+nights.
+
+Cousin Patty is small, rather white and thin, and she is fifty-five.  I
+tell you her age, because in a way it explains many things which would
+otherwise puzzle you.  She was born just before the war.  She knew
+nothing of the luxury of the days of slavery.  She has twisted and
+turned and economized all of her life.  She has struggled with all the
+problems which beset the South in Reconstruction times, and she has
+come out if it all, sweet and shrewd, and with a point of view about
+women which astonishes me, and which gives us a chance for many
+sprightly arguments.  Her black hair is untouched with gray, she wears
+it parted and in a thick knot high on her head.  Her gowns are
+invariably of black silk, well cut and well made.  She makes them
+herself, and gets her patterns from New York!  Can you see her now?
+
+Our arguments are usually about women, and their position in the world
+to-day.  You know I am conservative, clinging much to old ideals, old
+fashions, to the beliefs of gentler times--but Cousin Patty in this
+backwater of civilization has gone far ahead of me.  She believes that
+the hope of the South is in its women.  "They read more than the men,"
+she says, "and they have responded more quickly to the new social
+ideals."
+
+But of our arguments more in another letter--this will serve, however,
+to introduce you to some of the astonishing mental processes of this
+little marooned cousin of mine.
+
+For in a sense she is marooned.  Once upon a time when Cotton was king,
+and slave labor made all things possible, there was prosperity here,
+but now the land is impoverished.  So Cousin Patty does not depend upon
+the land.  She read in some of her magazines of a woman who had made a
+fortune in wedding cake.  She resolved that what one woman could do
+could be done by another.  Hence she makes and sells wedding cake, and
+while she has not made a fortune she has made a living.  She began by
+asking friends for orders; she now gets orders from near and far.
+
+So all day there is the good smell of baking in the house, and the
+sound of the whisking of eggs.  And every day little boxes have to be
+filled.  Will you smile when I tell you that I like the filling of the
+little boxes?  And that while we talk o' nights, I busy myself with
+this task, while Cousin Patty does things with narrow white ribbon and
+bits of artificial orange blossoms, so that the packages which go out
+may be as beautiful and bride-y as possible.
+
+It is strange, when one thinks of it, that I came to your house on a
+wedding night, and here I live in a perpetual atmosphere of wedding
+blisses.
+
+In the morning I write.  In the afternoon I do other things.  The
+weather is not cold--it is dry and sunshiny--windless.  I take long
+walks over the hills and far away.  Some of it is desolate country
+where the boxed pines have fallen, or where an area has been burned but
+one comes now and then upon groves of shimmering and shining young
+trees,--is there any tree as beautiful as a young pine with the
+sunshine on it?
+
+It is rare to find a grove of old pines, yet there are one or two
+estates where for years no trees have been cut or burned, and beneath
+these tall old singing monarchs I sit on the brown needles, and write
+and write--to what end I know not.
+
+I have not one finished story to show you, though the beginnings of
+many.  The pen is not my medium.  My thoughts seem to dry up when I try
+to put them on paper.  It is when I talk that I grow most eloquent.
+Oh, little friend, shall I ever make the world listen again?
+
+I am going to tell you presently of those who have listened, down
+here--such an audience--and in such an amphitheater!
+
+My walks take me far afield.  The roads are sandy, and I do not always
+follow them, preferring, rather, the dunes which remind me so much of
+those by the sea.  Once upon a time this ground was the ocean's bed--I
+have the feeling always that just beyond the low hills I shall glimpse
+the blue.
+
+Now and then I meet some darkey of the old school with his cheery
+greeting; now and then on the highroad a schooner wagon sails by.
+These wagons give one the queer feeling of being set back to pioneer
+days,--do you remember the Pike's Peak picture at the Capitol with all
+the eager faces turned toward the setting sun?
+
+Now and then I run across a hunting party from one of the big hotels
+which are getting to be plentiful in this healthy region, but these
+people with their sporting clothes and their sophistication always seem
+out of place among the pines.
+
+And now, since you have written to me of life as a journey on the
+highroad, I will tell you of my first adventure.
+
+There's a schooner-man who comes from the sandhills on his way to the
+nearest resort with his chickens and eggs.  It is a three days'
+journey, and he camps out at night, sleeping in his wagon, building his
+fire in the open.
+
+One day he passed me as I sat tired by the wayside, and offered to give
+me a lift toward home.  I accepted, and rode beside him.  And thus
+began an acquaintance which interests me, and evidently pleases him.
+
+He is tall and loosely put together, this knight of the Sandy Road, but
+with the ease of manner which seems to belong to his kind.  There's
+good blood in these sand-hill people, and it shows in a lack of
+self-consciousness which makes one feel that they would meet a prince
+or an emperor without embarrassment.  Yet there's nothing of
+forwardness, nothing of impertinence.  It is a drawing-room manner,
+preserved in spite of generations of illiteracy and degeneration.
+
+He is not an unpicturesque object.  Given a plumed hat, a doublet and
+hose, and he would look the part, and his manner would fit in with it.
+Given good English, his voice would never betray him for what he is.
+For another thing that these people have preserved is a softness of
+voice and an inflection which is Elizabethan rather than twentieth
+century American.
+
+Having grown to know him fairly well, I fished for an invitation to
+visit his home.  I wanted to see where this gentlemanly backwoodsman
+spent the days which were not lived on the road.
+
+I carried a rug with me, and slept for the first night under the open
+sky.  Have you ever seen a southern sky when it was studded with stars?
+If not, there's something yet before you.  There's no whiteness or
+coldness about these stars, they are pure gold, and warm with light.
+
+My schooner-man slept in his wagon, covered with an old quilt.  His
+mules were picketed close by, the dog curled himself beside his master,
+each getting warmth from the other.
+
+We cooked supper and breakfast over the coals--chickens broiled for our
+evening meal, ham and eggs for the morning.  We gave the dog the bones
+and the crusts.  I took bread with me, for Cousin Patty warned me that
+I must not depend upon my squire for food.  Cooking among these people
+is a lost art.  Cousin Patty believes that the regeneration of the poor
+whites of the South will be accomplished through the women.  "When they
+learn to cook," she says, "the men won't need whiskey.  When the
+whiskey goes, they'll respect the law."
+
+A mile before we reached the end of our journey, we were met by the
+children of my schooner-squire.  Five of them--two boys, two girls, and
+a baby in the arms of the oldest girl.  They all had the gentle quiet
+and ease of the father--but they were unkempt little creatures,
+uncombed, unwashed, in sad-colored clothes.  That's the difference
+between the negro and the white man of this region.  The negro is
+cheerful, debonair, he sings, he dances, and he wears all the colors of
+the rainbow.  An old black woman who carries home my wash wore the
+other day a purple petticoat with a scarlet skirt looped above it, an
+old green sweater, and, tied over her head, a pink wool shawl.  Against
+the neutral background of sandy hill she was a delight to the eye.  The
+whites on the other hand seem like little animals, who have taken on
+the color of the landscape that they may be hidden.
+
+But to go back to my sad children.  It seemed to me that in them I was
+seeing the South with new eyes, perhaps because I have been away just
+long enough to get the proper perspective.  And my life has been, you
+see, lived in the Southern cities, where one touches rarely the
+primitive.
+
+The older boys are, perhaps, ten and twelve, blue-eyed and tow-headed.
+I saw few signs of affection or intelligence.  They did not kiss their
+father when he came, except the small girl, who ran to him and was
+hugged; the others seemed to practice a sort of incipient stoicism, as
+if they were too old, too settled, for demonstration.
+
+The mother, as we entered, was like her children.  None of them has the
+initiative or the energy of the man.  They are subdued by the
+changeless conditions of their environment; his one adventure of the
+week keeps him alert and alive.
+
+It is a desolate country, charred pines sticking up straight from white
+sand.  It might be made beautiful if for every tree that they tapped
+for turpentine they would plant a new one.
+
+But they don't know enough to make things beautiful.  The Moses of this
+community will be some man who shall find new methods of farming, new
+crops for this soil, who will show the people how to live.
+
+And now I come to a strange fairy-tale sort of experience--an
+experience with the children who have lived always among these charred
+pines.
+
+All that evening as I talked, their eyes were upon me, like the eyes of
+little wild creatures of the wood--a blank gaze which seemed to
+question.  The next day when I walked, they went with me, and for some
+distance I carried the baby, to rest the arms of the big girl, who is
+always burdened.
+
+It was in the afternoon that we drifted to a little grove of young
+pines, the one bit of pure green against the white and gray and black
+of that landscape.  The sky was of sapphire, with a buzzard or two
+blotted against the blue.
+
+Here with a circle of the trees surrounding us, the children sat down
+with me.  They were not a talkative group, and I was overcome by a
+sense of the impossibility of meeting them on any common ground of
+conversation.  But they seemed to expect something--they were like a
+flock of little hungry birds waiting to be fed--and what do you think I
+gave them?  Guess.  But I know you have it wrong.
+
+I recited "Flos Mercatorum," my Whittington poem!
+
+It was done on an impulse, to find if there was anything in them which
+would respond to such rhyme and rapture of words.
+
+I gave it in my best manner, standing in the center of the circle.  I
+did not expect applause.  But I got more than applause.  I am not going
+to try to describe the look that came into the eyes of the oldest
+boy--the nearest that I can come to it is to say that it was the look
+of a child waked from a deep sleep, and gazing wide-eyed upon a new
+world.
+
+He came straight toward me.  "Where--did you--git--them words?" he
+asked in a breathless sort of way.
+
+"A man wrote them--a man named Noyes."
+
+"Are they true?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"Say them again."
+
+It was not a request.  It was a command.  And I did say them, and saw a
+soul's awakening.
+
+Oh, there are people who won't believe that it can be done like
+that--in a moment.  But that boy was ready.  He had dreamed and until
+now no one had ever put the dreams into words for him.  He cannot read,
+has probably never heard a fairy tale--the lore of this region is
+gruesome and ghostly, rather than lovely and poetic.
+
+Perhaps, 'way back, five, six generations, some ancestor of this lad
+may have drifted into London town, perhaps the bells sang to him, and
+subconsciously this sand-hill child was illumined by that inherited
+memory.  Somewhere in the back of his mind bells have been chiming, and
+he has not known enough to call them bells.  However that may be, my
+verses revealed to him a new heaven and a new earth.
+
+Without knowing anything, he is ready for everything.  Perhaps there
+are others like him.  Cousin Patty says there are girls.  She insists
+that the girls need cook-books, not poetry, but I am not sure.
+
+I shall go again to the pines, and teach that boy first by telling him
+things, then I shall take books.  I haven't been as interested in
+anything for years as I am in that boy.
+
+So, will you think of me as seeing, faintly, the Vision?  Your eyes are
+clearer than mine.  You can see farther; and what you see, will you
+tell me?
+
+And now about Barry.  I know how hard it is to have him leave you, and
+that under all your talk of trumpets blowing and flags flying, there's
+the ache and the heart-break.  I cannot see why such things should come
+to you.  The rest of us probably deserve what we get.  But you--I
+should like to think of you always as in a garden--you have the power
+to make things bloom.  You have even quickened the dry dust of my own
+dead life, so that now in it there's a little plot of the pansies of my
+thoughts of you, and there's rosemary, for remembrance, and there's the
+little bed of my interest in that boy--what seeds did you plant for it?
+
+It is raining here to-night.  I wonder it the rain is beating on the
+windows of the Tower Rooms, and if you are snug within, with Pittiwitz
+purring and the fire snapping, and I wonder if throughout all that rain
+you are sending any thought to me.
+
+Perhaps I shouldn't ask it.  But I do ask for another letter.  What the
+last was to me I have told you.  I shall live on the hope of the next.
+
+Faithfully and gratefully always,
+
+ROGER POOLE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XV
+
+_In Which Barry and Leila Go Over the Hills and Far Away; and in Which
+a March Moon Becomes a Honeymoon._
+
+
+The news that Barry must go away had been a blow to Leila's childish
+dreams of immediate happiness.  She knew that Barry was bitter, that he
+rebelled against the plans which were being made for him, but she did
+not know that Gordon had told the General frankly and flatly the reason
+for this delay in the matrimonial arrangements.
+
+The General, true to his ancient code, had protested that "a man could
+drink like a gentleman," that Barry's good blood would tell.  "His wild
+oats aren't very wild--and every boy must have his fling."
+
+Gordon had listened impatiently, as to an ancient and outworn
+philosophy.  "The business world doesn't take into account the wild
+oats of a man, General," he had said.  "The new game isn't like the old
+one,--the convivial spirit is not the popular one among men of affairs.
+And that isn't the worst of it, with Barry's temperament there's danger
+of a breakdown, moral and physical.  If it were not for that, he could
+come into your office and practice law, as you suggest.  But he's got
+to get away from Washington.  He's got to get away from old
+associations, and you'll pardon me for saying it, he's got to get away
+from Leila.  She loves him, and is sorry for him, even though we've
+kept from her the knowledge of his fault.  She thinks we are all
+against him and her sympathy weakens him.  It was the same with her
+mother, Constance tells me.  She wouldn't believe that her boy could be
+anything but perfect, and John Ballard wasn't strong enough to
+counteract her influence.  Mary was the only one, and now that it has
+come to an actual crisis, even Mary blames me for trying to do what I
+know is best for Barry.  I want to take him over to the other side, cut
+him away from all that hampers him here, and bring him back to you
+stronger in fiber and more of a man."
+
+The General shook his head.  "Perhaps," he said, "but I can't bear to
+think of the hurt heart of my little Leila."
+
+"They should never have been engaged," Gordon said, "but it won't make
+matters any better to let things go on.  If Leila doesn't marry Barry,
+she won't have to bear the burdens he will surely bring to her.  She'd
+better be unhappy with you to take care of her, than tied to him and
+unhappy."
+
+"But I'm an old man, and she is such a child.  Life for me is so short,
+and for her so long."
+
+"We must do what seems best for the moment, and let the future take
+care of itself.  Barry's only a boy.  They are neither of them ready
+for marriage--a few years of waiting won't hurt them."
+
+It was in this strain that Gordon talked to Barry.
+
+"It won't hurt you to wait."
+
+"Wait for what?" Barry flamed; "until Leila wears her heart out?  Until
+you teach her that I'm not--fit?  Until somebody else comes along and
+steals her, while I'm gone?"
+
+"Is that the opinion you have of her constancy?"
+
+"No," Barry said, huskily, "she's as true as steel.  But I can't see
+the use of this, Gordon.  If I marry Leila, she'll make a man of me."
+
+"She hasn't changed you during these last months," Gordon stated,
+inexorably, "and you mustn't run the risk of making her unhappy.  It is
+a mere business proposition that I am putting before you, Barry.  You
+must be able to support a wife before you marry one, and Washington
+isn't the place for you to start.  In a business like ours, a man must
+be at his best.  You are wasting your time here, and you've acquired
+the habit of sociability, which is just a habit, but it grows and will
+end by paralyzing your forces.  A man who's always ready to be with the
+crowd isn't the man that's ready for work, and he isn't the man who's
+usually onto his job.  I am putting this not from any moral or
+spiritual ideal, but from the commercial.  The man who wins out isn't
+the one with his brain fuddled; he's the one with his brain clear.
+Business to-day is too keen a game for any one to play who isn't
+willing to be at it all the time."
+
+Thus practical common sense met the boy at every turn.  And he was
+forced at last for pride's sake to consent to Gordon's plans for him.
+But he had gone to Mary, raging.  "Is he going to run our lives?"
+
+"He is doing it for your good, Barry."
+
+"Why can't I go South with Roger Poole?--if I must go away?  He told me
+of a man who stayed in the woods with him."
+
+"That would simply be temporary, and it would delay matters.  Gordon's
+idea is that in this way you'll be established in business.  If you
+went South you'd be without any remunerative occupation."
+
+"Doesn't Poole make a living down there?"
+
+"He hasn't yet.  He's to try story-writing."
+
+"Are you corresponding with him, Mary?"
+
+Resenting his catechism, she forced herself to say, quietly, "We write
+now and then."
+
+"What does Porter think of that?"
+
+"Porter hasn't anything to do with it."
+
+"He has, too.  You know you'll marry him, Mary."
+
+"I shall not.  I haven't the least idea of marrying Porter."
+
+"Then why do you let him hang around you?"
+
+"Barry," she was blazing, "I don't let him hang around.  He comes as he
+has always come--to see us all."
+
+"Do you think for a moment that he'd come if it weren't for you?  He
+isn't craving my society, or Aunt Isabelle's, or Susan Jenks'."
+
+Barry was glad to blame somebody else for something--he was aware of
+himself as the blackest sheep in the fold, but let those who had other
+sins hear them.
+
+He flung himself away from her--out of the house.  And for days he did
+not come home.  They kept the reason of his absence from Leila, and as
+far as they could from Constance.  But Mary went nearly wild with
+anxiety, and she found in Gordon a strength and a resourcefulness on
+which she leaned.
+
+When Barry came back, he offered no further objections to their plans.
+Yet they could see that he was consenting to his exile only because he
+had no argument with which to meet theirs.  He refused to resign from
+the Patent Office until the last moment, as if hoping for some reprieve
+from the sentence which his family had pronounced.  He was moody,
+irritable, a changed boy from the one who had hippity-hopped with Leila
+on Constance's wedding night.
+
+Even Leila saw the change.  "Barry, dear," she said one evening as she
+sat beside him in her father's library, "Barry--is it because you hate
+to leave--me?"
+
+He turned to her almost fiercely.  "If I had a penny of my own, Leila,
+I'd pick you up, and we'd go to the ends of the earth together."
+
+And she responded breathlessly, "It would be heavenly, Barry."
+
+He dallied with temptation.  "If we were married, no one could take you
+away from me."
+
+"No one will ever take me away."
+
+"I know.  But they might try to make you give me up."
+
+"Why should they?"
+
+"They'll say that I'm not worthy--that I'm a poor idiot who can't earn
+a living for his wife."
+
+"Oh, Barry," she whispered, "how can any one say such things?"  She
+knelt on a little stool beside him, and her brown hair curled madly
+about her pink cheeks.  "Oh, Barry," she said again, "why not--why not
+get married now, and show them that we can live on what you make, and
+then you needn't go--away."
+
+He caught at that hope.  "But, sweetheart, you'd be--poor."
+
+"I'd have you."
+
+"I couldn't take you to our old house.  It--belongs to Mary.  Father
+knew that Constance was to be married, so he tried to provide for Mary
+until she married; after that the property will be divided between the
+two girls.  He felt that I was a man, and he spent what money he had
+for me on my education."
+
+"I don't want to live in Mary's house.  We could live with Dad."
+
+"No," sharply.  Barry had been hurt when the General had seemed to
+agree so entirely with Gordon.  He had expected the offer of a place in
+the General's office, and it had not come.
+
+"If we marry, darling," he said, "we must go it alone.  I won't be
+dependent on any one."
+
+"We could have a little apartment," her eyes were shining, "and Dad
+would furnish it for us, and Susan Jenks could teach me to cook and she
+could tell me your favorite things, and we'd have them, and it would be
+like a story book.  Barry, please."
+
+He, too, thought it would be like a story book.  Other people had done
+such things and had been happy.  And once at the head of his own
+household he would show them that he was a man.
+
+Yet he tried to put her away from him.  "I must not.  It wouldn't be
+right."
+
+But as the days went on, and the time before his departure grew short,
+he began to ask himself, "Why not?"
+
+And it was thus, with Romance in the lead, with Love urging them on,
+and with Ignorance and Innocence and Impetuosity hand in hand, that, at
+last, in the madness of a certain March moon, Leila and Barry ran away.
+
+Leila had a friend in Rockville--an old school friend whom she often
+visited.  Barry knew Montgomery County from end to end.  He had fished
+and hunted in its streams, he had motored over its roads, he had danced
+and dined at its country houses, he had golfed at its country clubs, he
+had slept at its inns and worshiped in its churches.
+
+So it was to Montgomery County and its county seat that they looked for
+their Gretna Green, and one night Leila kissed her father wistfully,
+and told him that she was going to see Elizabeth Dean.
+
+"Just for Saturday, Dad.  I'll go Friday night, and come back in time
+for dinner Saturday."
+
+"Why not motor out?"
+
+"The train will be easier.  And I'll telephone you when I get there."
+
+She took chances on the telephoning--for had he called her up, he would
+have found that she did not reach Rockville on Friday night, nor was
+she expected by Elizabeth Dean until Saturday in time for lunch.
+
+There was thus an evening and a night and the morning of the next day
+in which Little-Lovely Leila was to be lost to the world.
+
+She took the train for Rockville, but stopped at a station half-way
+between that town and Washington, and there Barry met her.  They had
+dinner at the little station restaurant--a wonderful dinner of ham and
+eggs and boiled potatoes, but the wonderfulness had nothing to do with
+the food; it had to do rather with Little-Lovely Leila's shining eyes
+and blushes, and Barry's abounding spirits.  He was like a boy out of
+school.  He teased Leila and wrote poetry on the fly-specked dinner
+card, reading it out loud to her, reveling in her lovely confusion.
+
+When they finished, Leila telephoned to her father that she had arrived
+at Rockville and was safe.  If her voice wavered a little as she said
+it, if her eyes filled at the trustfulness of his affectionate
+response, these things were soon forgotten, as Barry caught up her
+little bag, and they left the station, and started over the hills in
+search of happiness.
+
+The way was rather long, but they had thought it best to avoid trolley
+or train or much-traveled roads, lest they be recognized.  And so it
+came about that they crossed fields, and slipped through the edges of
+groves, and when the twilight fell Little-Lovely Leila danced along the
+way, and Barry danced, too, until the moon came up round and gold above
+the blackness of the distant hills.
+
+Once they came to a stream that was like silver, and once they passed
+through a ghostly orchard with budding branches, and once they came to
+a farmhouse where a dog barked at them, and the dog and the orchard and
+the budding trees and the stream all seemed to be saying:
+
+"_You are running away---you are running away._"
+
+And now they had walked a mile, and there was yet another.
+
+"But what's a mile?" said Barry, and Little-Lovely Leila laughed.
+
+She wore a frock of pale yellow, with a thick warm coat of the same
+fashionable color.  Her hat was demurely tied under her little chin
+with black velvet ribbons.  She was like a primrose of the spring--and
+Barry kissed her.
+
+"May I tell Dad, when I get home to-morrow night?" she asked.
+
+"We'll wait until Sunday.  April Fool's Day, Leila.  We'll tell him,
+and he will think it's a joke.  And when he sees how happy we are, he
+will know we were right."
+
+So like children they refused to let the thought of the future mar the
+joy of the present.
+
+Once they rested on a fallen log in a little grove of trees.  The wind
+had died down, and the air was warm, with the still warmth of a
+Southern spring.  Between the trees they could see a ribbon of white
+road which wound up to a shadowy church.
+
+"The minister's house is next to the church," Barry told her; "in a
+half hour from now you'll be mine, Leila.  And no one can take you away
+from me."
+
+In the wonder of that thought they were silent for a time, then:
+
+"How strange it will seem to be married, Barry."
+
+"It seems the most natural thing in the world to me.  But there will be
+those who will say I shouldn't have let you."
+
+"I let myself.  It wasn't you.  Did you want my heart to break at your
+going, Barry?"
+
+For a moment he held her in his arms, then he kissed her, gently, and
+let her go.  When they came back this way, she would be his wife.
+
+The old minister asked few questions.  He believed in youth and love;
+the laws of the state were lenient.  So with the members of his family
+for witnesses, he declared in due time that this man and woman were
+one, and again they went forth into the moonlight.
+
+And now there was another little journey, up one hill and down another
+to a quaint hostelry--almost empty of guests in this early season.
+
+A competent little landlady and an old colored man led them to the
+suite for which Barry had telephoned.  The little landlady smiled at
+Leila and showed the white roses which Barry had sent for her room, and
+the old colored man lighted all the candles.
+
+There was a supper set out on the table in their sitting-room, with
+cold roast chicken and hot biscuits, a bottle of light wine, and a
+round cake with white frosting.
+
+Leila cut the cake.  "To think that I should have a wedding cake," she
+said to Barry.
+
+So they made a feast of it, but Barry did not open the bottle of wine
+until their supper was ended.  Then he poured two glasses.
+
+"To you," he whispered, and smiled at his bride.
+
+Then before his lips could touch it, he set the glass down hastily, so
+that it struck against the bottle and broke, and the wine stained the
+white cloth.
+
+Leila looking up, startled, met a strange look.  "Barry," she
+whispered, "Barry, dear boy."
+
+He rose and blew out the candles.
+
+"Let me tell you--in the dark," he said.  "You've got to know, Leila."
+
+And in the moonlight he told her why they had wanted him to go away.
+
+"It is because I've got to fight--devils."
+
+At first she did not understand.  But he made her understand.
+
+She was such a little thing in her yellow gown.  So little and young to
+deal with a thing like this.
+
+But in that moment the child became a woman.  She bent over him.
+
+"My husband," she said, "nothing can ever part us now, Barry."
+
+So love taught her what to say, and so she comforted him.
+
+
+The next morning Elizabeth Dean met Leila Dick at the station.  That
+she was really meeting Leila Ballard was a thing, of course, of which
+she had no knowledge.  But Leila was acutely conscious of her new
+estate.  It seemed to her that the motor horn brayed it, that the birds
+sang it, that the cows mooed it, that the dogs barked it, "_Leila
+Ballard, Leila Ballard, Leila Ballard, wife of Barry--you're not Leila
+Dick, you're not, you're not, you're not._"
+
+"I never knew you to be so quiet," Elizabeth said at last, curiously.
+"What's the matter?"
+
+Leila brought herself back with an effort.  "I like to listen," she
+said, "but I am usually such a chatterbox that people won't believe it."
+
+Somehow she managed to get through that day.  Somehow she managed to
+greet and meet the people who had been invited to the luncheon which
+was given in her honor.  But while in body she was with them, in spirit
+she was with Barry.  Barry was her husband--her husband who loved her
+and needed her in his life.
+
+His confession of the night before had brought with it no deadening
+sense of hopelessness.  To her, any future with Barry was rose-colored.
+
+But it had changed her attitude toward him in this, that she no longer
+adored him as a strong young god who could stand alone, and whom she
+must worship because of his condescension in casting his eyes upon her.
+
+He needed her!  He needed little Leila Dick!  And the thought gave to
+her marriage a deeper meaning than that of mere youthful raptures.
+
+He had put her on the train that morning reluctantly, and had promised
+to call her up the moment she reached town.
+
+So her journey toward Washington on the evening train was an hour of
+anticipation.  To those who rode with her, she seemed a very pretty and
+self-contained young person making a perfectly proper and commonplace
+trip on the five o'clock express--in her own mind, she was set apart
+from all the rest by the fact of her transcendant romance.
+
+Her father met her at the station and put her into a taxi.  All the way
+home she sat with her hand in his.
+
+"Did you have a good time?" he asked.
+
+"Heavenly, Dad."
+
+They ate dinner together, and she talked of her day, wishing that there
+was nothing to keep from him, wishing that she might whisper it to him
+now.  She had no fear of his disapproval.  Dad loved her.
+
+No call had come from Barry.  She finished dinner and wandered
+restlessly from room to room.
+
+When nine o'clock struck, she crept into the General's library, and
+found him in his big chair reading and smoking.
+
+She sat on a little stool beside him, and laid her head against his
+knee.  Presently his hand slipped from his book and touched her curls.
+And then both sat looking into the fire.
+
+"If your mother had lived, my darling," the old man said, "she would
+have made things easier for you."
+
+"About Barry's going away?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"It seems silly for him to go, Dad.  Surely there's something here for
+him to do."
+
+"Gordon thinks that the trip will bring out his manhood, make him less
+of a boy."
+
+"I don't think Gordon understands Barry."
+
+"And you do, baby?  I'm afraid you spoil him."
+
+"Nobody could spoil Barry."
+
+"Don't love him too much."
+
+"As if I could."
+
+"I'm not sure," the old man said, shrewdly, "that you don't.  And no
+man's worth it.  Most of us are selfish pigs--we take all we can
+get--and what we give is usually less than we ask in return."
+
+But now she was smiling into the fire.  "You gave mother all that you
+had to give, Dad, and you made her happy."
+
+"Yes, thank God," and now there were tears on the old cheeks; "for the
+short time that I had her--I made her happy."
+
+When Barry came, he found her curled up in her father's arms.  Over her
+head the General smiled at this boy who was some day to take her from
+him.
+
+But Barry did not smile.  He greeted the General, and when Leila came
+to him, tremulously self-conscious, he did not meet her eyes, but he
+took her hand in his tightly, while he spoke to her father.
+
+"You won't mind, General, if I carry Leila off to the other room.  I've
+a lot of things to say to her."
+
+"Of course not.  I was in love once myself, Barry."
+
+They went into the other room.  It was a long and formal parlor with
+crystal chandeliers and rose-colored stuffed furniture and gilt-framed
+mirrors.  It had been furnished by the General's mother, and his little
+wife had loved it and had kept it unchanged.
+
+It was dimly lighted now, and Leila in her white dinner gown and Barry
+tall and slender in his evening black were reflected by the long
+mirrors mistily.
+
+Barry took her in his arms, and kissed her.  "My wife, my wife," he
+said, again and again, "my wife."
+
+At first she yielded gladly, meeting his rapture with her own.  But
+presently she became aware of a wildness in his manner, a broken note
+in his whispers.
+
+So she released herself, and stood back a little from him, and asked,
+breathing quickly, "Barry, what has happened?"
+
+"Everything.  Since I left you this morning I've lost my place.  I
+found the envelope on my desk this morning--telling of my discharge.
+They said that I'd been too often away without sufficient excuse, and
+so they have dropped me from the rolls.  And you see that what Gordon
+said was true.  I can't earn a living for a wife.  Now that I have you,
+I can't take care of you--it is not much of a fellow that you've
+married, Leila."
+
+Oh, the little white face with the shining eyes!
+
+Then out of the stillness came her cry, like a bird's note, triumphant.
+"But I'm your wife now, and nothing can part us, Barry."
+
+He caught up her hands in his.  "Dearest, dearest--don't you see that I
+can't ever tell them of our marriage until I can show them----"
+
+"Show them what, Barry?"
+
+"That I can take care of you."
+
+"Do you mean that I mustn't even tell Dad, Barry?"
+
+"You mustn't tell any one, not until I come back."
+
+Every drop of blood was drained from her face.
+
+"Until you come back.  Are you going--away?"
+
+"I promised Gordon to-day that I would."
+
+She swayed a little, and he caught her.  "I had to promise, Leila.
+Don't you see?  I haven't a penny, and I can't confess to them that
+I've married you.  I wanted to tell him that you were mine--that all
+your sweetness and dearness belonged to me.  I wanted to shout it to
+the world.  But I haven't a penny, and I'm proud, and I won't let
+Gordon think I've been a--fool."
+
+"But Dad would help us."
+
+"Do you think I'd beg him to give me what he hasn't offered, Leila?
+I've got to show them that I'm not a boy."
+
+She struggled to bring herself out of the strange numbness which
+gripped her.  "If I could only tell Dad."
+
+"Surely it can be our own sweet secret, dearest."
+
+She laid her cheek against his arm, in a dumb gesture of surrender, and
+her little bare left hand crept up and rested like a white rose petal
+against the blackness of his coat.
+
+He laid his own upon it.  "Poor little hand without a wedding ring," he
+said.
+
+And now the numbness seemed to engulf her, to break----
+
+"Hush, Leila, dear one."
+
+But she could not hush.  That very morning they had slipped the wedding
+ring over a length of narrow blue ribbon, and Barry had tied it about
+her neck.  To-morrow, he had promised, she should wear it for all the
+world to see.
+
+But she was not to wear it.  It must be hidden, as she had hidden it
+all day above her heart.
+
+"Leila, you are making it hard for me."
+
+It was the man's cry of selfishness, but hearing it, she put her own
+trouble aside.  He needed her, and her king could do no wrong.
+
+So she set herself to comfort him.  In the month that was left to them
+they would make the most of their happiness.  Then perhaps she could
+get Dad to bring her over in the summer, and he should show her London,
+and all the lovely places, and there would be the letters; she would
+write everything--and he must write.
+
+"You little saint," he said when he left her, "you're too good for me,
+but all that's best in me belongs to you--my precious."
+
+She went to the door with him and said "good-night" bravely.
+
+Then she shut the door and shivered.  When at last she made her way
+through the hall to the library, she seemed to be pushing against some
+barrier, so that her way was slow.
+
+On the threshold of that room she stopped.
+
+"Dad," she said, sharply.
+
+"My darling."
+
+He sprang to his feet just in time and caught her.
+
+She lay against his heart white and still.  The strain of the last two
+days had been too great for her, and Little-Lovely Leila had fainted
+dead away.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVI
+
+_In Which a Long Name is Bestowed Upon a Beautiful Baby; and in Which a
+Letter in a Long Envelope Brings Freedom to Mary._
+
+
+The christening of Constance's baby brought together a group of
+feminine personalities, which, to one possessed with imagination, might
+have stood for the evil and beneficent fairies of the old story books.
+
+The little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson, in spite of the dignity
+of her hyphenated name, was a wee morsel.  Swathed in fine linen, she
+showed to the unprejudiced eye no signs of great beauty.  With a
+wrinkly-red skin, a funny round nose, a toothless mouth--she was like
+every other normal baby of her age, but to her family and friends she
+was a rare and unmatched object.
+
+Even Aunt Frances succumbed to her charms.  "I must say," she remarked
+to Delilah Jeliffe, as they bent over the bassinet, "that she is
+remarkable for her age."
+
+Delilah shrugged.  "I'm not fond of them.  They're so red and squirmy."
+
+Leila protested hotly.  "Delilah, she's lovely--such little perfect
+hands."
+
+"Bird's claws!"
+
+Mary took up the chant.  "Her skin's like a rose leaf."
+
+And Grace: "Her hair is going to be gold, like her mother's."
+
+"Hair?"  Delilah's tone was incredulous.  "She hasn't any."
+
+Aunt Frances expertly turned the small morsel on its back.  "What do
+you call that?" she demanded, indignantly.
+
+Above the fat crease of the baby's neck stuck out a little feathery
+duck's-tail curl--bright as a sunbeam.
+
+"What do you call that?" came the chorus of worshipers.
+
+Delilah gave way to quiet, mocking laughter.  "That isn't hair," she
+said; "it is just a sample of yellow silk."
+
+Porter, coming up, was treated to a repetition of this remark.
+
+"Let us thank the Gods that it isn't red," was his fervent response.
+
+Grace's hands went up to her own lovely hair.
+
+"Oh," she reproached him.
+
+Porter apologized.  "I was thinking of my carroty head.  Yours is
+glorious."
+
+"Artists paint it," Grace agreed pensively, "and it goes well with the
+right kind of clothes."
+
+Delilah looked from one to the other.
+
+"You two would make a beautiful pair of saints on a stained glass
+window," she said reflectively, "with a spike of lilies and halos back
+of your heads."
+
+"Most women are ready for halos," Porter said, "and wings, but I can't
+see myself balancing a spike of lilies."
+
+"Nor I," Grace rippled; "you'd better make it hollyhocks, Delilah--do
+you know the old rhyme
+
+  "'A beau never goes
+  Where the hollyhock blows'?"
+
+
+"You've never lacked men in your life," Delilah told her, shrewdly,
+"but with that hair you won't be one of the comfortable married
+kind--it will be either a _grande passion_ or a career for you.  If you
+don't find your Romeo, you'll be Mother Superior in a convent, the head
+of a deaconess home, or a nurse on a battle-field."
+
+Grace's eyes sparkled.  "Oh, wise Delilah, you haven't drifted so very
+far away from my dreams.  Where did you get your wisdom?"
+
+"I'm learning things from Colin Quale.  We study types together.  It's
+great fun for me, but he's perfectly serious."
+
+Colin Quale was Delilah's artist.  "Why didn't you bring him?"
+Constance asked.
+
+"Because he doesn't belong in this family group; and anyhow I had
+something for him to do.  He's making a sketch of the gown I am to wear
+at the White House garden party.  It will keep him busy for the
+afternoon."
+
+"Delilah," Leila looked up from her worship of Mary-Constance, "I don't
+believe you ever see in people anything but the way they look."
+
+"I don't, duckie.  To me--you are a sort of family art gallery.  I hang
+you up in my mind, and you make a rather nice little collection."
+
+Barry, coming in, caught up her words, with something of his old
+vivacity.
+
+"The baby belongs to the Dutch school--with that nose."
+
+There was a chorus of protest.
+
+"She looks like you," Delilah told him.  "Except for her nose, she's a
+Ballard.  There's nothing of her father in her, except her beautiful
+disposition."
+
+She flashed a challenging glance at Gordon.  He stiffened.  Such women
+as Delilah Jeliffe might have their place in the eternal scheme of
+femininity, but he doubted it.
+
+"She is a Ballard even in that," he said, formally; "it is Constance
+whose disposition is beyond criticism, not mine."
+
+"And now that you've carried off Constance, you're going to take
+Barry," Delilah reproached him.
+
+Leila dropped the baby's hand.
+
+"Yes," Gordon discussed the subject with evident reluctance, "he's
+going over with me, to learn the business--he may never have a better
+opportunity."
+
+The light went out of Barry's eyes.  He left the little group, wandered
+to the window, and stood looking out.
+
+"Mary will go next," Delilah prophesied.  "With Constance and Barry on
+the other side, she won't be able to keep away."
+
+Mary shook her head.  "What would Aunt Isabelle and Susan Jenks and
+Pittiwitz do without me?"
+
+"What would I do without you?" Porter demanded, boldly.  "Don't put
+such ideas in her head, Delilah; she's remote enough as it is."
+
+But Mary was not listening.  Barry had slipped from the room, and
+presently she followed him.  Leila had seen him go, and had looked
+after him longingly, but of late she had seemed timid in her public
+demonstrations; it was as if she felt when she was under the eye of
+others that by some sign or look she might betray her secret.
+
+Mary found Barry down-stairs in the little office, his head in his
+hands.
+
+"Dear boy," she said, and touched his bright hair with hesitating
+fingers.
+
+He reached up and caught her hand.
+
+"Mary," he said, brokenly, "what's the use?  I began wrong--and I guess
+I'll go on wrong to the end."
+
+And now she spoke with earnestness, both hands on his shoulders.
+
+"Oh, Barry, boy--if you fight, fight with all your weapons.  And don't
+let the wrong thoughts go on molding you into the wrong thing.  If you
+think you are going to fail, you'll fail.  But if you think of yourself
+as conquering, triumphant--if you think of yourself as coming back to
+Leila, victorious, why you'll come that way; you'll come strong and
+radiant, a man among men, Barry."
+
+It was this convincing optimism of Mary Ballard's which brought to
+weaker natures a sense of actual achievement.  To hear Mary say, "You
+can do it," was to believe in one's own powers.  For the first time in
+his life Barry felt it.  Hitherto, Mary had seemed rather worrying when
+it came to rules of conduct--rather unreasonable in her demands upon
+him.  But now he was caught up on the wings of her belief in him.
+
+"Do you think I can?" a light had leaped into his tired eyes.
+
+"I know you can, dear boy," she bent and kissed him.
+
+"You'll take care of Leila," he begged, and then, very low, "I'm afraid
+I've made an awful mess of things, Mary."
+
+"You mustn't think of that--just think, Barry--of the day when you come
+back!  How all the wedding bells will ring!"
+
+But he thought of a wedding where there had been no bells.  He thought
+of Little-Lovely Leila, in her yellow gown on the night of the mad
+March moon.
+
+"You'll take care of her," he said again, and Mary promised.
+
+And now the Bishop arrived, and certain old friends of the family.  As
+Barry and Mary made their way up-stairs, they met Susan with the mail.
+There was one long letter for Mary, which she tore open with eagerness,
+glanced at it, and tucked it into her girdle, then went on with winged
+feet.
+
+Porter, glancing at her as she came in, was struck by the radiance of
+her aspect.  How lovely she was with that flush on her cheek, and with
+her sweet shining eyes!
+
+With due formality and with the proper number of godfathers and
+godmothers, little Mary-Constance Ballard Richardson was officially
+named.
+
+During the ceremony, Leila sat by her father's side, her hand in his.
+In these days the child clung to the strong old soldier.  When she had
+come back to consciousness on the night that she had fainted on the
+threshold of the library, he had asked, "My darling, what is it?"
+
+And she had cried, "Oh, Dad, Dad," and had wept in his arms.  But she
+had not told him that she was Barry's wife.  It was because of Barry's
+going, she had admitted; it seemed as if her heart would break.
+
+The General talked the situation over with Mary.  "How will she stand
+it, when he is really gone?"
+
+"It will be better when the parting is over, and she settles down to
+other things."
+
+Yet that day, after the christening, Mary wondered if what she had said
+was true.  What would life hold for Leila when Barry was gone?
+
+Her own life without Roger Poole was blank.  Reluctantly, she was
+forced to admit it.  Constance, the baby, Porter, these were the
+shadows, Roger was the substance.
+
+The letters which had passed between them had shown her depths in him
+which had hitherto been unrevealed.  Comparing him with Porter Bigelow,
+she realized that Porter could never say the things which Roger said;
+he could not think them.
+
+And while in the eyes of the world Roger was a defeated man, and Porter
+a successful one, yet there was this to think of, that Porter's
+qualities were negative rather than positive.  With all of his
+opportunities, he was narrowing his life to the pursuit of pleasure and
+his love for her.  Roger had shirked responsibility toward his fellow
+man by withdrawal; Porter was shirking by indifference.
+
+So she found herself, as many another woman has found herself, fighting
+the battle of the less fortunate.  Roger wanted her, yet pressed no
+claim.  Porter wanted her and meant to have her.
+
+He had shown of late his impatience at the restraint which she had put
+upon him.  He had encroached more and more upon her time--demanded more
+and more.  He had been kept from saying the things which she did not
+want him to say only by the fact that she would not listen.
+
+She knew that he was expecting things which could never be--and that by
+her silence she was giving sanction to his expectations.  Yet she found
+herself dreading to say the final word which would send him from her.
+
+The friendship between a man and a woman has this poignant quality--it
+has no assurance of permanence.  For, if either marries, the other must
+suffer loss; if either loves, the other must put away that which may
+have become a prized association.  As her friend, Mary valued Porter
+highly.  She had known him all her life.  Yet she was aware that she
+was taking all and returning nothing; and surely Porter had the right
+to ask of life something more than that.
+
+She sighed, and going to her desk, took out of it the letter which she
+had received in the morning mail.
+
+She knew that the moment that she announced the contents of that letter
+would be a dramatic one.  Even if she did it quietly, it would have the
+effect of a bomb thrown into the midst of a peaceful circle.  She had a
+fancy that it would be best to tell Porter first.  He was to come back
+to dinner, so she dressed and went down early.
+
+He found her in the garden.  There were double rows of hyacinths in the
+paths now, with tulips coming up between, and beyond the fountain was
+an amethyst sky where the young moon showed.
+
+She rose to greet him, her hands full of fragrant blossoms.
+
+He held her hand tightly.  "How happy you look, Mary."
+
+"I am happy."
+
+"Because I'm here?  If you could only say that once truthfully."
+
+"It is always good to have you,"
+
+"But you won't tell a lie, and say you're happier, because of my
+coming?  Oh, Contrary Mary!"
+
+She shook her head.  "If I said nice things to you, you'd
+misunderstand."
+
+"Perhaps.  But why this radiance?"
+
+"Good news."
+
+"From whom?"
+
+"A man."
+
+"What man?" with rising jealousy.
+
+"One who has given me the thing I want."
+
+He was plainly puzzled.
+
+"I don't know what you mean."
+
+"A letter came this morning--a lovely letter in a long envelope."
+
+She took a paper out of a magazine which lay on the stone bench by her
+side.  "Read that," she said.
+
+He read and his face went perfectly white, so that it showed chalkily
+beneath his red hair.
+
+"Mary," he said, "what have you done this for?  You know I'm not going
+to let you."
+
+"You haven't anything to do with it."
+
+"But I have.  It is ridiculous.  You don't know what you are doing.
+You've never been tied to an office desk--you've never fought and
+struggled with the world."
+
+[Illustration: "You don't know what you are doing."]
+
+"Neither have you, Porter."
+
+"Well, if I haven't, is it my fault?" he demanded, "I was born into the
+world with this millstone of money around my neck, and a red head.  Dad
+sent me to school and to college, and he set me up in business.  There
+wasn't anything left for me to do but to keep straight, and I've done
+that for you."
+
+"I know," she was very sweet as she leaned toward him, "but, Porter,
+sometimes, lately, I've wondered if that's all that is expected of us."
+
+"All?  What do you mean?"
+
+"Aren't we expected to do something for others?"
+
+"What others?"
+
+She wanted to tell him about Roger Poole and the boy in the pines.  Her
+eyes glowed.  But her lips were silent.
+
+"What others, Mary?"
+
+"The people who aren't as fortunate as we are."
+
+"What people?"
+
+Mary was somewhat vague.  "The people who need us--to help."
+
+"Marry me, and you can be Lady Bountiful--dispensing charity."
+
+"It isn't exactly charity."  She had again the vision of Roger Poole
+and the boy.  "People don't just want our money--they want us
+to--understand."
+
+He was not following her.  "To think that you should want to go out in
+the world--to work.  Tell me why you are doing it."
+
+"Because I need an outlet for my energies--the girl of limited income
+in these days is as ineffective as a jellyfish, if she hasn't some
+occupation."
+
+"You could never be a jellyfish.  Mary, listen, listen.  I need you,
+dear.  I've kept still for a year--Mary!"
+
+"Porter, I can't."
+
+And now he asked a question which had smouldered long in his breast.
+
+"Is there any one else?"
+
+Was there?  Her thoughts leaped at once to Roger.  What did he mean to
+her?  What could he ever mean?  He had said himself that he could
+expect nothing.  Perhaps he had meant that she must expect nothing.
+
+"Mary, is it--Roger Poole?"
+
+Her eyes came up to meet his; they were like stars.  "Porter, I
+don't--know."
+
+He took the blow in silence.  The shadows were on them now.  In all the
+beauty of the May twilight, the little bronze boy grinned at love and
+at life.
+
+"Has he asked you, Mary?"
+
+"No.  I'm not sure that he wants to marry me--I'm not sure that I want
+to marry him--I only know that he is different."  It was like Mary to
+put it thus, frankly.
+
+"No man could know you without wanting to marry you.  But what has he
+to offer you--oh, it is preposterous."
+
+She faced him, flaming.  "It isn't preposterous, Porter.  What has any
+man to offer any woman except his love?  Oh, I know you men--you think
+because you have money--but if--if--both of you loved me--you'd stand
+before me on your merits as men--there would be nothing else in it for
+me but that."
+
+"I know.  And I'm willing to stand on my merits."  The temper which
+belonged to Porter's red head was asserting itself.  "I'm willing to
+stand on my merits.  I offer you a past which is clean--a future of
+devotion.  It's worth something, Mary--in the years to come when you
+know more of men, you'll understand that it is worth something."
+
+"I know," she said, her hand on his, "it is worth a great deal.  But I
+don't want to marry anybody."  It was the old cry reiterated.  "I want
+to live the life I have planned for a little while--then if Love claims
+me, it must be _love_--not just a comfortable getting a home for myself
+along the lines of least resistance.  I want to work and earn, and know
+that I can do it.  If I were to marry you, it would be just because I
+couldn't see any other way out of my difficulties, and you wouldn't
+want me that way, Porter."
+
+He did want her.  But he recognized the futility of wanting her.  For a
+little while, at least, he must let her have her way.  Indeed, she
+would have it, whether he let her or not.  But Roger Poole should not
+have her.  He should not.  All that was primitive in Porter rose to
+combat the claims which she made for his rival.
+
+"I knew there'd be trouble when you let the Tower Rooms," he said
+heavily at last; "a man like that always appeals to a girl's sense of
+romance."
+
+The Tower Rooms!  Mary saw Roger as he had stood in them for the first
+time amid all the confusion of Constance's flight from the home nest.
+That night he had seemed to her merely a person who would pay the
+rent--yet the money which she had received from him had been the
+smallest part.
+
+She drifted away on the tide of her dreams, and Porter felt sharply the
+sense of her utter detachment from him.
+
+"Mary," he said, tensely, "Mary, oh, my little Contrary Mary--you
+aren't going to slip out of my life.  Say that you won't."
+
+"I'm not slipping away from you," she said, "any more than I am
+slipping away from my old self.  I don't understand it, Porter.  I only
+know that what you call contrariness is a force within me which I can't
+control.  I wish that I could do the things which you want me to do, I
+wish I could be what Gordon and Constance and Barry and even Aunt
+Frances want--but there's something which carries me on and on, and
+seems to say, 'There's more than this in the world for you'--and with
+that call in my ears, I have to follow."
+
+He rose, and his head was up.  "All my life, I have wanted just one
+thing which has been denied me--and that one thing is you.  And no
+other man shall take you from me.  I suppose I've got to set myself
+another season of patience.  But I can wait, because in the end I shall
+get what I want--remember that, Mary."
+
+"Don't be too sure, Porter."
+
+"I am so sure," lifting the hand which was weighted with the heavy
+ring, "I am so sure, that I will make a wager with fortune, that the
+day will come when this ring shall be our betrothal ring, I'll give you
+others, Mary, but this shall be the one which shall bind you to me."
+
+She snatched her hand away.  "You speak as if you were--sure," she said.
+
+"I am.  I'm going to let you work and do as you please for a little
+while, if you must.  But in the end I'm going to marry you, Mary."
+
+At dinner Mary announced the contents of her letter in the long
+envelope.  "I have received my appointment as stenographer in the
+Treasury, and I'm to report for duty on the twentieth."
+
+It was Aunt Frances who recovered first from the shock.  "Well, if you
+were my child----"
+
+Grace, with little points of light in her eyes, spoke smoothly, "If
+Mary were your child, she would be as dutiful as I am, mother.  But you
+see she isn't your child."
+
+Aunt Frances snorted--"Dutiful."
+
+Gordon was glowering.  "It is rank foolishness."
+
+Mary flared.  "That's your point of view, Gordon.  You judge me by
+Constance.  But Constance has always been feminine and sweet--and I've
+never been particularly feminine, nor particularly sweet."
+
+Barry followed up her defense.  "I guess Mary knows how to take care of
+herself, Gordon."
+
+"No woman knows how to take care of herself," Gordon was obstinate,
+"when it comes to the fight with economic conditions.  I should hate to
+think of Constance trying to earn a living."
+
+"Gordon, dear," Constance's voice appealed, "I couldn't--but Mary
+can--only I hate to see her do it."
+
+"I don't," said Grace, stoutly.  "I envy her."
+
+Aunt Frances fixed her daughter with a stern eye.  "Don't encourage her
+in her foolishness, Grace," she said; "each of you should marry and
+settle down with some nice man."
+
+"But what man, mother?" Grace, leaning forward, put the question, with
+an irritating air of doubt.
+
+"There are a half dozen of them waiting."
+
+"Nice boys!  But a man.  Find me one, mother, and I'll marry him."
+
+"The trouble with you and Mary," Porter informed her, "is that you
+don't want a man.  You want a hero."
+
+Grace nodded.  "With a helmet and plume, and riding on a steed--that's
+my dream--but mother refuses to let me wander in Arcady where such
+knights are found."
+
+"I think," Constance remarked happily, "that now and then they are
+found in every-day life, only you and Mary won't recognize them."
+
+From the other side her husband smiled at her.  "She thinks I'm one,"
+he said, and his fine young face was suffused by faint color.  "She
+thinks I'm one.  I hope none of you will ever undeceive her."
+
+Under the table Leila's little hand was slipped into Barry's big one.
+She could not proclaim to the world that she had found her knight, and
+loved him.
+
+Aunt Frances, very stiff and straight in her jetted dinner gown,
+resumed, "I wish it were possible to give girls a dose of common sense,
+as you give them cough syrup."
+
+"_Mother!_"
+
+But Aunt Frances, mounted on her grievance, rode it through the salad
+course.  She had wanted Grace to marry--her beauty and her family had
+entitled her to an excellent match.  But Grace was single still,
+holding her own against all her mother's arguments, maintaining in this
+one thing her right to independent action.
+
+Isabelle, straining her ears to hear what it was all about, asked Mary,
+late that night, "What upset Frances at dinner?"
+
+Mary told her.
+
+"Do you think I'm wrong, Aunt Isabelle?" she asked.
+
+The gentle lady sighed, "If you feel that it is right, it must be right
+for you.  But you're trying to be all head, dear child.  And there's
+your heart to reckon with."
+
+Mary flushed "I know.  But I don't want my heart to speak--yet."
+
+Aunt Isabelle patted her hand.  "I think it has--spoken," she said
+softly.
+
+Mary clung to her.  "How did you know?"
+
+"We who have dull ears have often clear eyes--it is one of our
+compensations, Mary."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVII
+
+_In Which an Artist Finds What All His Life He Has Been Looking For;
+and in Which He Speaks of a Little Saint in Red._
+
+
+It might have been by chance that Delilah Jeliffe driving in her
+electric through a broad avenue on the afternoon following the
+christening of Constance's baby, met Porter Bigelow, and invited him to
+go home with her for a cup of tea.
+
+There were certain things which Delilah wanted of Porter.  Perhaps she
+wanted more than she would ever get.  But to-day she had it in her mind
+to find out if he would go with her to the White House garden party.
+
+Colin Quale was little and blond.  Because of his genius, his presence
+had added distinction to her entrances and exits.  But at the coming
+function, she knew that she needed more than the prestige of
+genius--among the group of distinguished guests who would attend, the
+initial impression would mean much.  Porter's almost stiff stateliness
+would match the gown she was to wear.  His position, socially, was
+impregnable; he had wealth, and youth, and charm.  He would, in other
+words, make a perfectly correct background for the picture which she
+designed to make of herself.
+
+The old house at Georgetown, to which they came finally, was set back
+among certain blossoming shrubs and bushes.  A row of tulips flamed on
+each side of the walk.  Small and formal cedars pointed their spired
+heads toward the spring sky.
+
+In the door, as they ascended the steps, appeared Colin Quale.
+
+"Come in," he said, "come in at once.  I want you to see what I have
+done for you."
+
+He spoke directly to Delilah.  It was doubtful if he saw Porter.  He
+was blind to everything except the fact that his genius had designed
+for Delilah Jeliffe a costume which would make her fame and his.
+
+They followed him through the wide hall to the back porch in which he
+had set up his easel.  There, where a flowering almond bush flung its
+branches against a background of green, he had worked out his idea.
+
+A water-color sketch on the easel showed a girl in white--a girl who
+might have been a queen or an empress.  Her gown partook of the
+prevailing mode, but not slavishly.  There was distinction in it, and
+color here and there, which Colin explained.
+
+"It must be of sheer white, with many flowing flounces, and with faint
+pink underneath like the almond bloom.  And there must be a bit of
+heavenly blue in the hat, and a knot of green at the girdle--and a veil
+flung back--you see?--there'll be sky and field and flowers and a white
+cloud--all the delicate color and bloom----"
+
+Still explaining, he was at last induced to leave the picture, and have
+tea.  While Delilah poured, Porter watched the two, interested and
+diverted by enthusiasms which seemed to him somewhat puerile for a man
+who could do real things in the world of art.
+
+Yet he saw that Delilah took the little man very seriously, that she
+hung on his words of advice, and that she was obedient to his demands
+upon her.
+
+"She'll marry him some day," he said to himself, and Delilah seemed to
+divine his thought, for when at last Colin had rushed back to his
+sketch, she settled herself in her low chair, and told Porter of their
+first meeting.
+
+"I'll begin at the beginning," she said; "it is almost too funny to be
+true, and it could not possibly have happened to any one but me and
+Colin.
+
+"It was last summer when I was on the North Shore.  Father and I stayed
+at a big hotel, but I was crazy to get acquainted with the cottage
+colony.
+
+"But somehow I didn't seem to make good--you see that was in my crude
+days when I wanted to be a cubist picture instead of a daguerreotype.
+I liked to be startling, and thought that to attract attention was to
+attract friends--but I found that I did not attract them.
+
+"One night in August there was a big dance on at one of the hotels, and
+I wanted a gown which should outshine all the others--the ball was to
+be given for the benefit of a local chanty, and all the cottage colony
+would attend.  I sent an order for a gown to my dressmaker, and she
+shipped out a strange and wonderful creation.  It was an imported
+affair--you know the kind--with a bodice of a string of jet and a wisp
+of lace--with a tulle tunic, and a skirt of gold brocade that was so
+tight about my feet that it had the effect of Turkish trousers.  For my
+head she sent a strip of gold gauze which was to be swathed around and
+around my hair in a sort of nun's coif, so that only a little knot
+could show at the back and practically none in front.  It was the last
+cry in fashions.  It made me look like a dream from the Arabian Nights,
+and I liked it."
+
+She laughed, and, in spite of himself, Porter laughed with her.
+
+"I wore it to the dance, and it was there that I met Colin Quale.  I
+wish I could make you see the scene--the great ballroom, and all the
+other women staring at me as I came in--and the men, smiling.
+
+"I was in my element.  I thought, in those days, that the test of charm
+was to hold the eyes of the multitude.  To-day I know that it is to
+hold the eyes of the elect, and it is Colin who has taught me.
+
+"I had danced with a dozen other men when he came up to claim me.  I
+scarcely remembered that I had promised him a dance.  When he was
+presented to me I had only been aware of a pale little man with
+eye-glasses and nervous hands who had stared at me rather too steadily.
+
+"We danced in silence for several minutes and he danced divinely.
+
+"He stopped suddenly.  'Let's get out of here,' he said.  'I want to
+talk to you.'
+
+"I looked at him in amazement.  'But I want to dance.'
+
+"'You can always dance,' he said, quietly, 'but you cannot always talk
+to me.'
+
+"There was nothing in his manner to indicate the preliminaries of a
+flirtation.  He was perfectly serious and he evidently thought that he
+was offering me a privilege.  Curiosity made me follow him, and he led
+the way down the hall to a secluded reception room where there was a
+long mirror, a little table, and a big bunch of old-fashioned roses in
+a bowl.
+
+"On our way we passed a row of chairs, where some one had left a wrap
+and a scarf.  Colin snatched up the scarf--it was a long wide one of
+white chiffon.  The next morning I returned it to him, and he found the
+owner.  I am not sure what explanation he made for his theft, but it
+was undoubtedly attributed to the eccentricities of genius!
+
+"Well, when, as I said, we reached the little room, he pulled a chair
+forward for me, so that I sat directly in front of the mirror.
+
+"I remember that I surveyed myself complacently.  To my deluded eyes,
+my appearance could not be improved.  My head, swathed in its golden
+coif, seemed to give the final perfect touch."
+
+She laughed again at the memory, and Porter found himself immensely
+amused.  She had such a cool way of turning her mental processes inside
+out and holding them up for others to see.
+
+"As I sat there, stealing glances at myself, I became conscious that my
+little blond man was studying me.  Other men had looked at me, but
+never with such a cold, calculating gaze--and when he spoke to me, I
+nearly jumped out of my shoes--his voice was crisp, incisive.
+
+"'Take it off,' he said, and touched the gauze that tied up my head.
+
+"I gasped.  Then I drew myself up in an attempt at haughtiness.  But he
+wasn't impressed a bit.
+
+"'I suppose you know that I am an artist, Miss Jeliffe,' he said, 'and
+from the moment you came into the room, I haven't had a bit of peace.
+You're spoiling your type--and it affects me as a chromo would, or a
+crude crayon portrait, or any other dreadful thing.'
+
+"Do you know how it feels to be called a 'dreadful thing' by a man like
+that?  Well, it simply made me shrivel up and have shivers down my
+spine.
+
+"'But why?' I stammered.
+
+"'Women like you,' he said, 'belong to the stately, the aristocratic
+type.  You can be a _grande dame_ or a duchess--and you are making of
+yourself--what?  A soubrette, with your tango skirt and your strapped
+slippers, and your hideous head-dress--take it off.'
+
+"'But I can't take it off,' I said, almost tearfully; 'my hair
+underneath is--awful.'
+
+"'It doesn't make any difference about your hair underneath--it can't
+be worse than it is,' he roared.  'I want to see your coloring--take it
+off.'
+
+"And I took it off.  My hair was perfectly flat, and as I caught a
+glimpse of myself in the mirror, I wanted to laugh, to shriek.  But
+Colin Quale was as solemn as an owl.  'Ah,' he said, 'I knew you had a
+lot of it!'
+
+"He caught up the scarf which he had borrowed and flung it over my
+shoulders.  He gave a flick of his fingers against my forehead and
+pulled down a few hairs and parted them.  He whisked a little table in
+front of me, and thrust the bunch of roses into my arms.
+
+"'Now look at yourself,' he commanded.
+
+"I looked and looked again.  I had never dreamed that I could be like
+that.  The scarf and the table hid every bit of that Paris gown, and
+showed just a bit of white throat.  My plain parted hair and the
+roses--I looked," and now Delilah was blushing faintly, "I looked as I
+had always wanted to look--like the lovely ladies in the old English
+portraits.
+
+"'Do you like it?' Colin asked.
+
+"He knew that I liked it from my eyes, and for the first time since I
+had met him, he laughed.
+
+"'All my life,' he said, 'I have been looking for just such a woman as
+you.  A woman to make over--to develop.  We must be friends, Miss
+Jeliffe.  You must let me know where I can see you again.'
+
+"Well, I didn't dance any more that night.  I wrapped the scarf about
+my head, and went back to my hotel.  Colin Quale went with me.  All the
+way he talked about the sacredness of beauty.  He opened my eyes.  I
+began to see that loveliness should be suggested rather than
+emphasized.  And I have told you this because I want you to understand
+about Colin.  He isn't in love with me.  I rather fancy that back home
+in Amesbury or Newburyport, or whatever town it is that he hails from,
+there's somebody whom he'll find to marry.  To him I am a statue to be
+molded.  I am clay, marble, a tube of paint, a canvas ready for his
+brush.  It was the same way with this old house.  He wanted a setting
+for me, and he couldn't rest until he had found it.  He has not only
+changed my atmosphere, he has changed my manner--I was going to say my
+morals--he brings to me portraits of Romney ladies and Gainsborough
+ladies--until I seem positively to swim in a sea of stateliness.  And
+what I said just now about manners and morals is true.  A woman lives
+up to the clothes she wears.  If you think this change is on the
+surface, it isn't.  I couldn't talk slang in a Gainsborough hat, and be
+in keeping, so I don't talk slang; and a perfect lady in a moleskin
+mantle must have morals to match; so in my little mantle I cannot tell
+a lie."
+
+To see her with lowered lashes, telling it, was the funniest thing in
+the world, and Porter shouted.  Then her lashes were, for a moment,
+raised, and the old Delilah peeped out, shrewd, impish.
+
+"He wants me to change my name.  No, don't misunderstand me--not my
+last one.  But the first.  He says that Delilah smacks of the
+adventuress.  I don't think he is quite sure of the Bible story, but he
+gets his impressions from grand opera--and he knows that the Delilah of
+the Samson story wasn't nice--not in a lady-like sense.  My middle name
+is Anne.  He likes that better."
+
+"Lady Anne?  You'll look the part in that garden party frock he is
+designing for you."
+
+And now she had reached the question toward which she had been working.
+"Shall you go?"
+
+He shook his head.  "I doubt it.  It isn't a function from which one
+will be missed.  And the Ballards won't be there.  Mary is going over
+to New York with Constance for a few days before the sailing.  I'm to
+join them on the final day."
+
+"And you won't go to the garden party without Mary?"
+
+He found himself moved, suddenly, to speak out to her.
+
+"She wouldn't go if she were here--not with me."
+
+"Contrary Mary?" she drawled the words, giving them piquant suggestion.
+
+"It isn't contrariness.  Her independence is characteristic.  She won't
+let me do things because she wants to do them by herself.  But some day
+she'll let me do them."
+
+He said it grimly, and Delilah flashed a glance at him, then said
+carefully, "It would be a pity if she should fancy--Roger Poole."
+
+"She won't."
+
+"You can't tell--pity leads to the softer feeling, you know."
+
+"Why should she pity him?"
+
+"There's his past."
+
+"His past?  Roger Poole's?  What do you know of it, Delilah?"
+
+As he leaned forward to ask the eager question, he knew that by all the
+rules of the game he should not be discussing Mary with any one.  But
+he told himself hotly that it was for Mary's good.  If things had been
+hidden, they should be revealed--the sooner the better.
+
+Delilah gave him the details dramatically.
+
+"Then his wife is dead?"
+
+"Yes.  But before that the scandal lost him his church.  Nobody seems
+to know much of it all, I fancy.  Mary only gave me the outline."
+
+"And she knows?"
+
+"Yes.  Roger told her."
+
+"The chances are that there's--another side."
+
+He knew that it was a small thing to say.  He would not have said it to
+any one but Delilah.  She would not think him small.  To her all things
+would be fair for a lover.
+
+Before he went, that afternoon, he had promised to go with Delilah to
+the White House garden party.
+
+
+Hence a week later there floated within the vision of the celebrities
+and society folk, gathered together on the spacious lawn of the
+executive mansion, a lovely lady in faint rose-white, with a touch of
+heavenly blue in her wide hat, from which floated a veil which half hid
+her down-drooped eyes.
+
+People began at once to ask, "Who is she?"
+
+When it was discovered that her name was Jeliffe, and that she was not
+a distinguished personage, it did not matter greatly.  There was about
+her an air of distinction--a certain quiet atmosphere of withdrawal
+from the common herd which had nothing in it of haughtiness, but which
+seemed to set her apart.
+
+Porter, following in her wake as she swept across the green, thought of
+the girl in leopard skins, whose unconventionality had shocked him.
+Surely in this woman was developed a sense of herself as the center of
+a picture which was almost uncanny.  He found himself contrasting
+Mary's simplicity and lack of pose.
+
+Mary's presence here to-day would have meant much to a few people who
+knew and loved her; it would have meant nothing to the crowd who stared
+at Delilah Jeliffe.
+
+Colin Quale was there to enjoy the full triumph of the transformation.
+He hovered at a little distance from Delilah, worshiping her for the
+genius which met and matched his own.
+
+"I shall paint her in that," he said to Porter.  "It will be my
+masterpiece.  And if you could have seen her on the night I met her----"
+
+"She told me."  Porter was smiling.
+
+"It was like one of the old masters daubed by a novice, or like a room
+whitewashed over rare carvings--everything was hidden which should have
+been shown, and everything was shown which should have been hidden.  It
+was monstrous.
+
+"There are few women," he went on, "whom I could make over as I have
+made her over.  They have not the adaptability--the temperament.  There
+was one whom I could have transformed.  But I was not allowed.  She was
+little and blonde and the wife of a clergyman; she looked like a
+saint---and she should have worn straight things of clear green or red,
+or blue.  But she wore black.  I've sometimes wondered if she was such
+a saint as she looked.  There was a divorce afterward, I believe, and
+another man.  And she died."
+
+Porter, listening idly, came back.  "What type was she?"
+
+"Fra Angelico--to perfection.  I should have liked to dress her."
+
+"Did you ever tell her that you wanted to do it?"
+
+"Yes.  And she listened.  It was then that I gained my impression--that
+she was not a saint.  One night there was a little entertainment at the
+parish house and I had my way.  I made of her an angel, in a red robe
+with a golden lyre--and I painted her afterward.  She used to come to
+my studio, but I'm not sure that Poole liked it."
+
+"Poole?"  Porter was tense.
+
+"Her husband.  He could not make her happy."
+
+"Was she--the one in fault?"
+
+Colin shrugged.  "There are always two stories.  As I have said, she
+looked like a saint."
+
+"I should like to see--the picture."  Porter tried to speak lightly.
+"May I come up some day to your rooms?"
+
+Colin's face beamed.
+
+"I'm getting into new quarters.  I shall want your opinion--call me up
+before you come."
+
+It was Colin who went home with Delilah in Porter's car.  Porter
+pleaded important business, and walked for an hour around the Speedway,
+his brain in a whirl.
+
+Then Mary knew--Mary _knew_--and it had made no difference in her
+thought of Roger Poole!
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XVIII
+
+_In Which Mary Writes of the Workaday World, and in Which Roger Writes
+of the Dreams of a Boy._
+
+
+_In the Tower Rooms--June._
+
+I have been working in the office for a week, and it has been the
+hardest week of my life.  But please don't think that I have any
+regrets--it is only that the world has been so lovely outside, and that
+I have been shut in.
+
+I am beginning to understand that the woman in the home has a freedom
+which she doesn't sufficiently value.  She can run down-town in the
+morning; or slip out in the afternoon, or put off until to-morrow
+something which should have been done to-day.  But men can't run out or
+slip away or put off--no matter if the sun is shining, or the birds
+singing, or the wind calling, or the open road leading to adventure.
+
+Yet there are compensations, and I am trying to see them.  I am trying
+to live up to my theories.  And I am sustained by the thought that at
+last I am a wage-earner--independent of any one--capable of buying my
+own bread and butter, though all masculine help should fail!
+
+Aunt Isabelle is a dear, and so is Susan Jenks.  And that's another
+thing to think about.  What will the wage-earning part of the world do,
+when there are no home-keepers left?  If it were not for Aunt Isabelle
+and Susan, there wouldn't be any one to trail after me with cushions
+for my tired back, and cold things for me to drink on hot days, and hot
+things to drink on cool days.
+
+I begin to perceive faintly the masculine point of view.  If I were a
+man I should want a wife for just that--to toast my slippers before the
+fire as they do in the old-fashioned stories, to have my dinner piping
+hot, and to smooth the wrinkles out of my forehead.
+
+That's why I'm not sure that I should make a comfortable sort of wife.
+I can't quite see myself toasting the slippers.  But I can see
+Constance toasting them, or Leila--but Grace and I--you see, after all,
+there are home women and the other kind, and I fancy that I'm the other
+kind.
+
+This, you'll understand, is a philosophy founded on the vast experience
+of a week in the workaday world--I'll let you know later of any further
+modification of my theories.
+
+Well, the house seems empty with just the three of us, and Pittiwitz.
+I miss Constance beyond words, and the beautiful baby.  Constance
+wanted to name her for me, but Gordon insisted that she should be
+called after Constance, so they compromised on Mary-Constance, such a
+long name for such a mite.
+
+We all went to New York to see them off.  By "all," I mean our
+crowd--Aunt Frances and Grace, Leila and the General--oh, poor little
+Leila--Delilah and Colin Quale, Aunt Isabelle and I, Susan Jenks with
+the baby in her arms until the very last minute--and Porter Bigelow.
+
+At the boat Leila went all to pieces.  I could never have believed that
+our gay little Leila would have taken anything so hard--and it was
+pitiful to see Barry.  But I can't talk about that--I can't think about
+it.
+
+Porter was dear to Leila.  He treated her as if she were his own little
+sister, and it was lovely.  He took her right away from the General,
+when the ship was leaving the dock.
+
+"Brace up, little girl," he said; "he'll be back before you know it."
+
+He literally carried her to a taxi and put her in, and then began such
+a day.  We did all of the delightful things that one can do in New York
+on a summer day, beginning with breakfast at a charming inn on Long
+Island, and ending with a roof garden at night.  And that night Leila
+was so tired that she went to sleep all in a minute, like a child, and
+forgot to grieve.
+
+Since we came back to Washington, Porter has kept it up, not letting
+Leila miss Barry any more than possible, and playing big brother to
+perfection.
+
+It is queer how we misjudge people.  If any one had told me that Porter
+could be so sweet and tender to anybody, I wouldn't have believed it.
+But perhaps Leila brings out that side of him.  Now I am independent,
+and aggressive, and I make Porter furious, and most of the time we
+fight.
+
+As I said, the house seems empty--but I am not in it much now.  If I
+had not had my work, I think I should have gone crazy.  That's why men
+don't get silly and hysterical and morbid like women--they are saved by
+the day's work.  I simply have to forget my troubles while I transcribe
+my notes on the typewriter.
+
+Of course you know what life in the Departments is without my telling
+you.  But to me it isn't monotonous or machine-like.  I am awfully
+interested in the people.  Of course my immediate work is with the nice
+old Chief.  I'm glad he is old, and gray-haired.  It makes me feel
+comfortable and chaperoned.  Do you know that I believe the reason that
+most girls hate to go out to work is because of the loss of protection.
+You see we home girls are always in the care of somebody.  I've been
+more than usually independent, but there has always been some one to
+play propriety in the background.  When I was a tiny tot there was my
+nurse.  Later at kindergarten I was sent home in a 'bus with all the
+other babies, and with a nice teacher to see that we arrived safely.
+Then there was mother and father and Barry and Constance, some of them
+wherever I went--and finally, Aunt Isabella.
+
+But in the office, I am not Mary Ballard, Daughter of the Home.  I am
+Mary Ballard, Independent Wage-Earner--stenographer at a thousand a
+year.  There's nobody to stand between me and the people I meet.  No
+one to say, "Here is my daughter, a woman of refinement and breeding;
+behind her I stand ready to hold you accountable for everything you may
+do to offend her."  In the wage-earning world a woman must stand for
+what she is--and she must set the pace.  So, in the office I find that
+I must have other manners than those in my home.  I can't meet men as
+frankly and freely.  I can't laugh with them and talk with them as I
+would over a cup of tea at my own little table.  If you and I had met,
+for example, in the office, I should have put up a barrier of formality
+between us, and I should have said, "Good-morning" when I met you and
+"Good-night" when I left you, and it would have taken us months to know
+as much about each other as you and I knew after a week in the same
+house.
+
+I suppose if I live here for years and years, that I shall grow to look
+upon my gray-haired chief as a sort of official grandfather, and my
+fellow-clerks will be brothers and sisters by adoption, but that will
+take time.
+
+I wonder if I shall work for "years and years"?  I am not sure that I
+should like it.  And there you have the woman of it.  A man knows that
+his toiling is for life; unless he grows rich and takes to golf.  But a
+woman never looks ahead and says, "This thing I must do until I die."
+She always has a sense of possible release.
+
+I am not at all sure that I am a logical person.  In one breath I am
+telling you that I like my work; and in the next I am saying that I
+shouldn't care to do it all my life.  But at least there's this for it,
+that just now it is a heavenly diversion from the worries which would
+otherwise have weighed.
+
+What did you do about lunches?  Mine are as yet an unsolved problem.  I
+like my luncheon nicely set forth on my own mahogany, with the little
+scalloped linen doilies that we've always used.  And I want my own tea
+and bread and butter and marmalade, and Susan's hot little made-overs.
+But here I am expected to rush out with the rest, and feast on
+impossible soups and stews and sandwiches in a restaurant across the
+way.  The only alternative is to bring my lunch in a box, and eat it on
+my desk.  And then I lose the breath of fresh air which I need more
+than the food.
+
+Oh, these June days!  Are they hot with you?  Here they are heavenly.
+When the windows are open, the sweet warm air blows up from the river
+and across the White Lot, and we get a whiff of roses from the gardens
+back of the President's house; and when I reach home at night, the
+fragrance of the roses in our own garden meets me long before I can see
+the house.  We have wonderful roses this year, and the hundred-leaved
+bush back of the bench by the fountain is like a rosy cloud.  I made a
+crown of them the other day, and put them on the head of the little
+bronze boy, and I took a picture which I am sending.  Somehow the boy
+of the fountain has always seemed to me to be alive, and to have in him
+some human quality, like a faun or a dryad.
+
+Last night I sat very late in the garden, and I thought of what you
+said to me that night when you tried to tell me about your life.  Do
+you remember what you said--that when I came into it, it seemed to you
+that the garden bloomed?  Well, I came across this the other day, in a
+volume of Ruskin which father gave me, and which somehow I've never
+cared to read--but now it seems quite wonderful:
+
+"You have heard it said that flowers flourish rightly only in the
+garden of some one who loves them.  I know you would like that to be
+true; you would think it a pleasant magic if you could flush your
+flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; if you could bid
+the dew fall upon them in the drought, and say to the south wind, 'Come
+thou south wind and breathe upon my garden that the spices of it may
+flow forth.'  This you would think a great thing.  And do you not think
+it a greater thing that all this you can do for fairer flowers than
+these--flowers that have eyes like yours and thoughts like yours, and
+lives like yours; which, once saved, you save forever.
+
+"Will you not go down among them--far among the moorlands and the
+rocks--far in the darkness of the terrible streets; these feeble
+florets are lying with all their fresh leaves torn and their stems
+broken--will you never go down to them, not set them in order in their
+little fragrant beds, nor fence them in their shuddering from the
+fierce wind?"
+
+There's a lot more of it--but perhaps you know it.  I think I have
+always done nice little churchly things, and charitable things, but I
+haven't thought as much, perhaps, about my fellow man and woman as I
+might.  We come to things slowly here in Washington.  We are
+conservative, and we have no great industrial problems, no strikes and
+unions and things like that.  Grace says that there is plenty here to
+reform, but the squalor doesn't stick right out before your eyes as it
+does in some of the dreadful tenements in the bigger cities.  So we
+forget--and I have forgotten.  Until your letter came about that boy in
+the pines.
+
+Everything that you tell me about him is like a fairy tale.  I can shut
+my eyes and see you two in that circle of young pines.  I can hear your
+voice ringing in the stillness.  You don't tell me of yourself, but I
+know this, that in that boy you've found an audience--and he is doing
+things for you while you are doing them for him.  You are living once
+more, aren't you?
+
+And the little sad children.  I was so glad to pick out the books with
+the bright pictures.  Weren't the Cinderella illustrations dear?  With
+all the gowns as pink as they could be and the grass as green as green,
+and the sky as blue as blue.  And the yellow frogs in "The frog he
+would a wooing go," and the Walter Crane illustrations for the little
+book of songs.
+
+You must make them sing "Oh, What Have You Got for Dinner, Mrs. Bond?"
+and "Oranges and Lemons" and "Lavender's blue, Diddle-Diddle."
+
+Do you know what Aunt Isabelle is making for the little girls?  She is
+so interested.  Such rosy little aprons of pink and white checked
+gingham--with wide strings to tie behind.  And my contribution is pink
+hair ribbons.  Now won't your garden bloom?
+
+You must tell me how their little garden plots come on.  Surely that
+was an inspiration.  I told Porter about them the other night, and he
+said, "For Heaven's sake, who ever heard of beginning with gardens in
+the education of ignorant children?"
+
+But you and I begin and end with gardens, don't we?  Were the seeds all
+right, and did the bulbs come up?  Aunt Isabelle almost cried over your
+description of the joy on the little faces when the crocuses they had
+planted appeared.
+
+I am eager to hear more of them, and of you.  Oh, yes, and of Cousin
+Patty.  I simply love her.
+
+There's so much more to say, but I mustn't.  I must go to bed, and be
+fresh for my work in the morning.
+
+Ever sincerely,
+
+MARY BALLARD.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+I shall have to begin at the last of your letter, and work toward the
+beginning, for it is of my sad children that I must speak
+first--although my pen is eager to talk about you, and what your letter
+has meant to me.
+
+The sad children are no longer sad.  Against the sand-hills they are
+like rose petals blown by the wind.  Their pink aprons tied in the back
+with great bows, and the pink ribbons have transformed them, so that,
+except for their blank eyes, they might be any other little girls in
+the world.
+
+I have taught them several of the pretty songs; you should hear their
+piping voices--and with their picture books and their gardens, they are
+very busy and happy indeed.
+
+Their mother is positively illumined by the change her young folks.
+Never in her life has she seen any country but this one of charred
+pines and sand.  I find her bending over the Cinderella book, liking
+it, and liking the children's little gardens.
+
+"We ain't never had no flower garden," she confided to me.  "Jim he
+ain't had time, and I ain't had time, and I ain't never had no luck
+nohow."
+
+But the boy still means the most to me.  And you have found the reason.
+It isn't what I am doing for him, it is what he is doing for me.  If
+you could see his eyes!  They are a boy's eyes now, not those of a
+little wild animal.  He is beginning to read the simple books you sent.
+We began with "Mother Goose," and I gave him first "The King of France
+and Forty Thousand Men."  The "Oranges and Lemons" song carried on the
+Dick Whittington atmosphere which he had liked in my poem, with its
+bells of Old Bailey and Shoreditch.  He'll know his London before I get
+through with him.
+
+But we've struck even a deeper note.  One Sunday I was moved to take
+out with me your father's old Bible.  There's a rose between its
+leaves, kept for a talisman against the blue devils which sometimes get
+me in their grip.  Well, I took the old Bible out to our little
+amphitheater in the pines, and read, what do you think?  Not the Old
+Testament stories.
+
+I read the Beatitudes, and my boy listened, and when I had finished, he
+asked, "What is blessed?  And who said that?"
+
+I told him, and brought back to myself in the telling the vision of
+myself as a boy.  Oh, how far I have drifted from the dreams of that
+boy!  And if it had not been for you I should never have turned back.
+And now this boy in the pines, and the boy who was I are learning
+together, step by step.  I am trying to forget the years between.  I am
+trying to take up life where it was before I was overthrown.  I can't
+quite get hold of things yet as a man, for when I try, I feel a man's
+bitterness.  But the boy believes, and I have shut the man in me away,
+until the boy grows up.
+
+Does this sound fantastic?  To whom else would I dare write such a
+thing, but to you?  But you will understand.  I feel that I need make
+no apology.
+
+Coming now to you and your work.  I can bring no optimism to bear, I
+suppose I should say that it is well.  But there is in me too much of
+the primitive masculine for that.  When a man cares for a woman he
+inevitably wants to shield her.  But what would you?  Shall a man let
+the thing which he would cherish be buffeted by the winds?
+
+I don't like to think of you in an office, with all your pretty woman
+instincts curbed to meet the stern formality of such a life.  I don't
+like to think that any chief, however fatherly, shall dictate to you
+not only letters but rules of conduct.  I don't like to think of you as
+hustled by a crowd at lunch time.  I don't like to think of the great
+stone walls which shut you in.  I don't want your wings clipped for
+such a cage.
+
+And there is this I must say, that all men do not need wives to toast
+their slippers or to serve their meals piping hot, or even to smooth
+the wrinkles, although I confess that there's an appeal in this last.
+Some of us need wives for inspiration, for spiritual and mental uplift,
+for the word of cheer when our hearts are weary--for the strength which
+believes in our strength--one doesn't exactly think of Juliet as
+toasting slippers, or of Rosalind, or of Portia, yet such women never
+for one moment failed their lovers.
+
+My Cousin Patty says that work will do you good, and we have great
+arguments.  I have told her of you, not everything, because there are
+some things which are sacred.  But I have told her that life for me,
+since I have known you, has taken on new meanings.
+
+She glories in your independence and wants to know you.  Some day, it
+is written, I am sure, that you two shall meet.  In some things you are
+much alike--in others utterly different, with the differences made by
+heredity and environment.
+
+My little Cousin Patty is the composite of three generations.  Amid her
+sweets and spices, she is as domestic as her grandmother, but her mind
+sweeps on to the future of women in a way which makes me gasp.
+
+Politics are the breath of her life.  She comes of a long line of
+statesmen, and having no father or brother or husband to uphold the
+family traditions of Democracy, she upholds them herself.  She is
+intensely interested just now in the party nominations.  A split among
+the Republicans gives her hope of the election of the Democratic
+candidate.  She's such a feminine little creature with her soft voice
+and appealing manner, with her big white aprons covering her up, and
+curling wisps of black hair falling over her little ears, that the
+contrasts in her life are almost funny.  In our evenings over the
+little white boxes, we mix questions of State Rights and Free Trade
+with our bridal decorations, and it seems to me that I shall never
+again go to a wedding without a vision of my little Cousin Patty among
+her orange blossoms, laying down the law on current politics.
+
+The negro question in Cousin Patty's mind is that of the Southerner of
+the better class.  It isn't these descendants of old families who hate
+the negro.  Such gentlefolk do not, of course, want equality, but they
+want fair treatment for the weaker race.  Find me a white man who raves
+with rabid prejudice against the black, and I will show you one whose
+grandfather belonged not to the planter but to the cracker class, or a
+Northerner grafting on Southern Stock.  Even in slave times there was
+rancor between the black man and what he called "po' white trash" and
+it still continues.
+
+The picture of the little bronze boy with his crown of roses lies on my
+desk.  I should like much to sit with you on the bench beneath the
+hundred-leaved bush.  What things I should have to say to you!  Things
+which I dare not write, lest you never let me write again.
+
+You glean the best from everything.  That you should take my little
+talk about gardens, and fit it to what Ruskin has said, is a gracious
+act.  You speak of that night in the garden.  Do you remember that you
+wore a scarlet wrap of thin silk?  I could think of nothing as you came
+toward me, but of some glorious flower of almost supernatural bloom.
+All about you the garden was dying.  But you were Life--Life as it
+springs up afresh from a world that is dead.
+
+I know how empty the old house seems to you, without Barry, without
+Constance, without the beautiful baby whom I have never seen.  To me it
+can never seem empty with you in it.  Is the saying of such things
+forbidden?  Please believe that I don't mean to force them on you, but
+I write as I think.
+
+By this post Cousin Patty is sending a box of her famous cake, for you
+and Aunt Isabelle.  There's enough for an army, so I shall think of you
+as dispensing tea in the garden, with your friends about you--lucky
+friends--and with the little bronze boy looking on and laughing.
+
+To Mary of the Garden, then, this letter goes with all good wishes.
+
+ROGER POOLE.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XIX
+
+_In Which Porter Plants an Evil Seed Which Grows and Flourishes; and in
+Which Ghosts Rise and Confront Mary._
+
+
+As has been said, Porter Bigelow was not a snob, and he was a
+gentleman.  But even a gentleman can, when swayed by primal emotions,
+convince himself that high motives rule, even while performing acts of
+doubtful honor.
+
+It was thus that Porter proved to himself that his interest in Roger
+Poole's past was purely that of the protector and friend of Mary
+Ballard.  Mary must not throw herself away.  Mary must be guarded
+against the tragedy of marriage with a man who was not worthy.  And who
+could do this better than he?
+
+In pursuance of his policy of protection he took his way one afternoon
+in July to Colin's studio.
+
+"I'm staying in town," Colin told him, "because of Miss Jeliffe.  Her
+father is held by the long Session.  I'm painting another picture of
+her, and fixing up these rooms in the interim--how do you like them?"
+
+In his furnishing, Colin had broken away from conventional tradition.
+Here were no rugs hung from balconies, no rich stuffs and suits of
+armor.  It was simply a cool little place, with a big window
+overlooking one of the parks.  Its walls were tinted gray, and there
+were a few comfortable rattan chairs, with white linen cushions.  A
+portrait of Delilah dominated the room.  He had painted her in the
+costume which she had worn at the garden party--in all the glory of
+cool greens and faint pink, and heavenly blue.
+
+Porter surveying the portrait said, slowly, "You said that you had
+painted--other women?"
+
+"Yes--but none so satisfactory as Miss Jeliffe."
+
+"There was the little saint--in red."
+
+"You remember that?  It is just a small canvas."
+
+"You said you'd show it to me."
+
+Colin, rummaging in a second room, called back, "I've found it, and
+here's another, of a woman who seemed to fit in with a Botticelli
+scheme.  She was the long lank type."
+
+Porter was not interested in the Botticelli woman, nor in Colin's
+experiments.  He wanted to see Roger Poole's wife, so he gave scant
+attention to Colin's enthusiastic comments on the first canvas which he
+displayed.
+
+"She has the long face.  D'you see?  And the thin long body.  But I
+couldn't make her a success.  That's the joy of Delilah Jeliffe.  She
+has the temperament of an actress and simply lives in her part.  But
+this woman couldn't.  And lobster suppers and lovely lank ladies are
+not synonymous--so I gave her up."
+
+But Porter was reaching for the other sketch.
+
+With it in his hand, he surveyed the small creature with the angel
+face.  In her dress of pure clear red, with the touch of gold in the
+halo, and a lyre in her hand, she seemed lighted by divine fire, above
+the earth, appealing.
+
+"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife
+was a failure," he ventured.
+
+Colin shrugged.  "Who can tell?" he said.  "There were moments when she
+did not seem a saint."
+
+"What do you mean?"  Porter's voice was almost irritable.
+
+"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected--"now and then a
+glance, a word--seemed to give her away."
+
+"You may have misunderstood."
+
+"Perhaps.  But men who know women rarely misunderstand--that kind."
+
+"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.
+
+"Several times.  He promised to be a great man.  It was a pity."
+
+"And you say she married again."
+
+"Yes, and died shortly after."
+
+The subject ended there, and Porter went away with the vision in his
+mind of Roger's wife, and of what the picture of the little saint in
+red would mean to Mary Ballard if she could see it.
+
+The thought, having lodged like an evil seed, grew and flourished.
+
+Of late he had seen comparatively little of Mary.  He was not sure
+whether she planned deliberately to avoid him, or whether her work
+really absorbed her.  That she wrote to Roger Poole he knew.  She did
+not try to hide the fact, but spoke frankly of Roger's life in the
+pines.
+
+The flames of his jealous thought burned high and hot.  He refused to
+go with his father and mother to the northern coast, preferring to stay
+and swelter in the heat of Washington where he could be near Mary.  He
+grew restless and pale, unlike himself.  And he found in Leila a
+confidante and friend, for the General, like Mr. Jeliffe, was held in
+town by the late Congress.
+
+Little-Lovely Leila was Little-Lonely Leila now.  Yet after her
+collapse at the boat, she had shown her courage.  She had put away
+childish things and was developing into a steadfast little woman, who
+busied herself with making her father happy.  She watched over him and
+waited on him.  And he who loved her wondered at her unexpected
+strength, not knowing that she was saying to herself, "I am a wife--not
+a child.  And I mustn't make it hard for father--I mustn't make it hard
+for anybody.  And when Barry comes back I shall be better fitted to
+share his life if I have learned to be brave."
+
+She wrote to Barry--such cheerful letters, and one of them sent him to
+Gordon.
+
+"It would have been better if I had brought her with me," he said, as
+he read extracts; "she's a little thing, Gordon, but she's a wonder.
+And she's the prop on which I lean."
+
+"Presently you will be the prop," Gordon responded, "and that's what a
+husband should be, Barry, as you'll find out when you're married."
+
+When!--if Gordon had only known how Barry dreamed of Leila--in her
+yellow gown, trudging by his side toward the church on the
+hill--dancing in the moonlight, a primrose swaying on its stem.  How
+unquestioning had been her faith in him!  And he must prove himself
+worthy of that faith.
+
+And he did prove it by a steadiness which astonished Gordon, and by an
+industry which was almost unnatural, and he wrote to Leila, "I shall
+show them, dear heart, and then they'll let me have you."
+
+It was on the night after Leila received this letter that Porter came
+to take her for a ride.
+
+"Ask Mary to go with us," he said; "she won't go with me alone."
+
+Leila's glance was sympathetic.  "Did she say she wouldn't?"
+
+"I asked her.  And she said she was--tired.  As if a ride wouldn't rest
+her," hotly.
+
+"It would.  You let me try her, Porter."
+
+Leila's voice at the telephone was coaxing.  "I want to go, Mary, dear,
+and Dad is busy at the Capitol, and----"
+
+"But I said I wouldn't."
+
+"Porter won't care, just so he gets you.  He's at my elbow now,
+listening.  And he says you are to ask Aunt Isabelle, and sit with her
+on the back seat if you want to be fussy."
+
+"Leila," Porter was protesting, "I didn't say anything of the kind."
+
+She went on regardless, "Well, if he didn't say it he meant it.  And we
+want you, both of us, awfully."
+
+Leila hanging up the receiver shook her head at Porter.  "You don't
+know how to manage Mary.  If you'd stay away from her for weeks--and
+not try to see her--she'd begin to wonder where you were."
+
+"No she wouldn't."  Porter's tone was weighted with woe.  "She'd simply
+be glad, and she'd sit in her Tower Rooms and write letters to Roger
+Poole, and forget that I was on the earth."
+
+It was out now--all his flaming jealousy.  Leila stared at him.  "Oh,
+Porter," she asked, breathlessly, "do you really think that she cares
+for Roger?"
+
+"I know it."
+
+"Has she told you?"
+
+"Not--exactly.  But she hasn't denied it.  And he sha'n't have her.
+She belongs to me, Leila."
+
+Leila sighed.  "Oh, why should love affairs always go wrong?"
+
+"Mine shall go right," Porter assured her grimly.  "I'm not in this
+fight to give up, Leila."
+
+When they took Mary in and Aunt Isabelle, Mary insisted that Leila
+should keep her seat beside Porter.  "I'm dead tired," she said, "and I
+don't want to talk."
+
+And now Porter, aiming strategically for Colin Quale's studio, took
+them everywhere else but in the direction of his objective point.  But
+at last, after a long ride, they crossed the park which was faced by
+Colin's rooms.
+
+"Have you seen Delilah's portrait?" Porter asked, casually.
+
+They had not, and he knew it.
+
+"If Colin's in, why not stop?"
+
+They agreed and found Delilah there, and her father.  The night was
+very hot, the room was faintly illumined by a hanging silver lamp in an
+alcove.  From among the shadows, Delilah rose.  "Colin is telephoning
+to the club for lemonades and things," she said; "he'll be back in a
+minute."
+
+"We came to see your picture," Mary informed her.
+
+"He is painting me again," Delilah said, "in the moonlight, like this."
+
+She seated herself in the wide window, so that back of her was the
+silver haze of the glorious night Her dress of thin fine white was
+unrelieved.
+
+Colin, coming in, set down his tray hastily and hastened to change the
+pose of her head.  "It will be hard to get just the effect I want," he
+told them.  "It must not be hard black and white, but luminous."
+
+"I want them to see the other picture," Porter said.
+
+Colin switched on the lights.  "I'll never do better than this," he
+said.
+
+"Do you like it, Mary?" Delilah asked.  "It is the garden party dress."
+
+"I love it," Mary said.  "It isn't just the dress, Delilah.  It's you.
+It's so joyous--as if you were expecting much of life."
+
+"I am," Delilah said.  "I'm expecting everything."
+
+"And you'll get it," Colin stated.  "You won't wait for any one to hand
+it to you; you'll simply reach out and take it."
+
+Porter's eyes were searching.   "Look here, Quale," he said, at last,
+"do you mind letting us see the others?--that Botticelli woman and the
+Fra Angelico--they show your versatility."
+
+Colin hesitated.  "They are crude beside this."
+
+But Porter insisted.  "They're charming.  Trot them out, Quale."
+
+So out they came---the picture of the lank lady with the long face, and
+the picture of the little saint in red.
+
+It was to the girl in red that they gave the most attention.
+
+"How lovely she is," Mary said, "and how sweet."
+
+But Delilah, observing closely, did not agree with her.  "I'm not sure.
+Some women look like that who are little fiends.  You haven't shown me
+this before, Colin.  Who was she?"
+
+Colin evaded.  "Some one I knew a long time ago."
+
+Porter was shaken inwardly by the thought that the little blond artist
+was proving himself a gentleman.  He would not proclaim to the world
+what he had told Porter in confidence.
+
+Porter's instincts, however, were purely primitive.  He wanted to shout
+to the housetops, "That's the picture of Roger Poole's wife.  Look at
+her and see how sweet she is.  And then decide if she made her own
+unhappiness."
+
+But he did not shout.  He kept silent and watched Mary.  She was still
+studying the picture attentively.  "I don't see how you can say that
+she could be anything but sweet, Delilah.  I think it is the face of a
+truthful child."
+
+Porter's heart leaped.  The time would come when he would tell her that
+the picture of the little trustful child was the picture of Roger
+Poole's wife.  And then----
+
+Colin had turned off the lights again.  They sat now among the shadows
+and drank cool things and ate the marvelous little cakes which were a
+specialty of the pastry cook around the corner.
+
+"In a week we'll all be away from here," Delilah said.  "I wonder why
+we are so foolish.  If it weren't for the fact that we've got the
+habit, we'd be just as comfortable at home."
+
+"I shall be at home," Mary said.  "I'm not entitled yet to a vacation."
+
+"Don't you hate it?" Delilah demanded frankly.
+
+Mary hesitated.  "No, I don't.  I can't say that I really like it--but
+it gave me quite a wonderful feeling to open my first pay envelope."
+
+"Women have gone mad," Porter said.  "They are deliberately turning
+away from womanly things to make machines of themselves."
+
+Delilah, taking up the cudgels for Mary, demanded, "Is Mary turning her
+back on womanly things any more than I?  I am making a business of
+capturing society--Mary is simply holding down her job until Romance
+butts into her life."
+
+Colin stopped her.  "I wish you'd put your twentieth century mind on
+your mid-Victorian clothes," he said, "and live up to them--in your
+language."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "Well, I told the truth if I didn't do it elegantly.
+We are both working for things which we want.  Mary wants Romance and I
+want social recognition."
+
+Leila sighed.  "It isn't always what we want that we get, is it?" she
+asked, and Porter answered with decision, "It is not.  Life throws us
+usually brickbats instead of bouquets."
+
+Colin did not agree.  "Life gives us sometimes more than we deserve.
+It has given me that picture of Miss Jeliffe.  And I consider that a
+pretty big slice of good fortune."
+
+"You're a nice boy, Colin," Delilah told him, "and I like you--and I
+like your philosophy.  I fancy life is giving me as much as I deserve."
+
+The others were silent.  Life was not giving Leila or Porter or Mary at
+that moment the things that they wanted.  Porter's demands on destiny
+were definite.  He wanted Mary.  Leila wanted Barry.  Mary did not know
+what she wanted; she only knew that she was unsatisfied.
+
+Porter took Leila home first, then drove Mary and Aunt Isabelle back
+through the park to the old house on the hill.
+
+"I'm coming in," he said, as he helped Mary out of the car.
+
+"But it is so late, Porter."
+
+"I've been here lots of times as late as this.  I won't be sent home,
+Mary, not to-night."
+
+Aunt Isabelle, tired and sleepy, went at once up-stairs.  Mary sat on
+the porch with Porter.  Below them lay the city in the white moonlight.
+For a while they were silent, then Porter said, suddenly:
+
+"Mary, there's something I want to tell you.  You may think that I'm
+interfering in your affairs, but I can't help it.  I can't see you
+doing things which will make you unhappy."
+
+"I'm not unhappy.  What do you mean, Porter?"
+
+"You will be--if you go on as you are going.  Mary--I took you to
+Colin's to-night on purpose, so that you could see the picture of the
+little saint in red, the Fra Angelico one."
+
+"Yes."
+
+"You know what you said about her--that she had such a trustful,
+childish face?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"That was the picture of Roger Poole's wife, Mary."
+
+She sat as still in her white dress as a marble statue.
+
+At last she asked, "How do you know?"
+
+"Quale told me.  I fancy he hadn't heard that Poole had lived here, and
+that we knew him.  So he let the name drop carelessly."
+
+"Well?"
+
+He turned on her flaming.  "I know what you mean by that tone, Mary.
+But you're unjust.  You think I've been meddling.  But I haven't.  It
+is only this.  If Poole could break the heart of one woman, he can
+break the heart of another--and he sha'n't break yours."
+
+"Who told you that he broke her heart?"
+
+"You've seen the picture.  Could a woman with a face like that do
+anything bad enough to wreck a man's life?  I can't believe it, Mary.
+There are always two sides of a question."
+
+She did not answer at once.  Then she said, "How did you know
+about--Roger?"
+
+"Delilah told me--he couldn't expect to keep it secret."
+
+"He did not expect it; and he had much to bear."
+
+"Then he has told you, and has pleaded with eloquence?  But that
+child's face in the picture pleads with me."
+
+It did plead.  Remembering it, Mary was assailed by her first doubts.
+It was such a child's face, with saint's eyes.
+
+Porter's voice was proceeding.  "A man can always make out a case for
+himself.  And you have only his word for what he did.  Oh, I suppose
+you'll think I'm all sorts of a cad to talk this way.  But I can't see
+you drifting, drifting toward a danger which may wreck your life."
+
+"Why should it wreck my life?"
+
+"Because Poole, whatever the merits of the case--doesn't seem to me
+strong enough to shape his destiny and yours.  Was it strong for him to
+let go as he did, just because that woman failed him?  Was it strong
+for him to hide himself here--like--like a criminal?  A strong man
+would have faced the world.  He would have tried to rise out of his
+wreck.  His actions all through spell weakness.  I could bear your not
+marrying me, Mary.  But I can't bear to see you marry a man who isn't
+worthy of you.  To see you unhappy would be torture for me."
+
+In his earnestness he had struck a genuine note, and she recognized it.
+
+"I know," she said, unsteadily.  "I believe that you think you are
+fighting my battle, instead of your own.  But I don't think Roger Poole
+would--lie."
+
+"Not consciously.  But he'd create the wrong impression--we can never
+see our own faults--and he would blame her, of course.  But the man who
+has made one woman unhappy would make another unhappy, Mary."
+
+Mary was shaken.
+
+"Please don't put it so--inevitably.  Roger hasn't any claim on me
+whatever."
+
+"Hasn't he?  Oh, Mary, hasn't he?"
+
+There was hope in his voice, and she shrank from it.
+
+"No," she said, gently, "he is just--my friend.  As yet I can't believe
+evil of him.  But I don't love him.  I don't love anybody--I don't want
+any man in my life."
+
+She thought that she meant it.  She thought it, even while her heart
+was crying out in defense of the man he had maligned.
+
+"How can one know the truth of such a thing?" she went on, unsteadily.
+"One can only believe in one's friends."
+
+"Mary," eagerly, "you've known Poole only for a few months.  You've
+known me always.  I can give you a devotion equal to anybody's.  Why
+not drop all this contrariness--and come to me?"
+
+"Why not?" she asked herself.  Roger Poole was obscure, and destined to
+be obscure.  More than that, there would always be people like Porter
+who would question his past.  "It is the whispers that kill," Roger had
+said.  And people would always whisper.
+
+She rose and walked to the end of the porch.  Porter followed her, and
+they stood looking down into the garden.  It was in a riot of summer
+bloom--and the fragrance rushed up to them.
+
+The garden!  And herself a flower!  It was such things that Roger Poole
+could say, and which Porter could never say.  And he could not say them
+because he could not think them.  The things that Porter thought were
+commonplace, the things which Roger thought were wonderful.  If she
+married Porter Bigelow, she would walk always with her feet firmly on
+the ground.  If she married Roger Poole they would fly in the upper air
+together.
+
+"Mary," Porter was insisting, "dear girl."
+
+She held up her hand.  "I won't listen," she said, almost passionately;
+"don't imagine things about me, Porter.  I have my work--and my
+freedom--I won't give them up for anybody."
+
+If she said the words with something less than her former confidence he
+was not aware of it.  How could he know that she was making a last
+desperate stand?
+
+When at last she sent him away, he went with an air of depression which
+touched her.
+
+"I've risked being thought a cad," he said, "but I had to do it."
+
+"I know.  I don't blame you, dear boy."
+
+She gave him her hand upon it, and he went away, and she was left alone
+in the moonlight.
+
+And when the last echo of his purring car had died away into silence
+she went down and sat in the garden on the bench beside the
+hundred-leaved bush.  Aunt Isabelle's light was still burning, and
+presently she would go up and say "Good-night," but for the moment she
+must be alone.  Alone to face the doubts which were facing her.
+Suppose, oh, suppose, that the things which Roger had told her about
+his marriage had been distorted to make his story sound plausible?
+Suppose the little wife had suffered, had been driven from him by
+coldness, by cruelty?  One never knew the real inner histories of such
+domestic tragedies.  There was Leila, for example, who knew nothing of
+Barry's faults, and Barry had not told her.  Might not other men have
+faults which they dared not tell?  The world was full of just such
+tragedies.
+
+When at last Mary reached the Tower Rooms, she undressed in the dark.
+She said her prayers in the dark, out loud, as had been her childish
+habit.  And this was what she said: "Oh, Lord, I want to believe in
+Roger.  Let me believe--don't let me doubt--let me believe."
+
+When at last she slept, it was to dream and wake and to dream again.
+And waking or dreaming, out of the shadows came ghostly creatures, who
+whispered, "His little wife was a saint--how could she make him
+unhappy?"  And again, "He may have been cruel, how do you know that he
+was not cruel?"  And again, "If you were his wife, you would be
+thinking always of that other wife--thinking--thinking--thinking."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XX
+
+_In Which Mary Faces the Winter of Her Discontent; and in Which Delilah
+Sees Things in a Crystal Ball._
+
+
+The summer slipped by, monotonously hot, languidly humid.  And it was
+on these hot and humid days that Mary felt the grind of her new
+occupation.  She grew to dread her entrance into the square close
+office room, with its gaunt desks and its unchanging occupants.  She
+waxed restless through the hours of confinement, escaping thankfully at
+the end of a long day.
+
+She longed for a whiff of the sea, for the deeps of some forest, for
+the fields of green which must be somewhere beyond the blue-gray haze
+which had settled over the shimmering city.
+
+She began to show the effects of her unaccustomed drudgery.  She grew
+pale and thin.  Aunt Isabelle was worried.  The two women sat much by
+the fountain.  Mary had begged Aunt Isabelle to go away to some cooler
+spot.  But the gentle lady had refused.
+
+"This is home to me, my dear," she had said, "and I don't mind the
+heat.  And there's no happiness for me in big hotels."
+
+"There'd be happiness for me anywhere that I could get a breath of
+coolness," Mary said, restlessly.  "I can hardly wait for the fall
+days."
+
+Yet when the cooler days came, there was the dreariness of rain and of
+sighing winds.  And now it was November, and Roger Poole had been away
+a year.
+
+The garden was dead, and Mary was glad.  Dead gardens seemed to fit
+into her mood better than those which bloomed.  Resolutely she set
+herself to be cheerful; conscientiously, she told herself that she must
+live up to the theories which she had professed; sternly, she called
+herself to account that she did not exult in the freedom which she had
+craved.  Constantly her mind warred with her heart, and her heart won;
+and she faced the truth that all seasons would be dreary without Roger
+Poole.
+
+Her letters to him of late had lacked the spontaneity which had at
+first characterized them.  She knew it, and tried to regain her old
+sense of ease and intimacy.  But the doubts which Porter had planted
+had borne fruit.  Always between her and Roger floated the vision of
+the little saint in red.
+
+It was inevitable that Roger's letters should change.  He ceased to
+show her the side which for a time he had so surprisingly revealed.
+Their correspondence became perfunctory--intermittent.
+
+"It is my own fault," Mary told herself, yet the knowledge did not make
+things easier.
+
+And now began the winter of her discontent.  If any one had told her in
+her days of buoyant self-confidence that she would ever go to bed weary
+and wake up hopeless, she would have scorned the idea; yet the fact
+remained that the fruit of her independence was Dead Sea apples.
+
+It was a letter from Barry which again brought her head up, and made
+her life march once more to a martial tune.
+
+"I have found the work for which I am fitted," he wrote; "you don't
+know how good it seems.  For so many years I went to my desk like a boy
+driven to school.  But now--why, I work after hours for the sheer love
+of it--and because it seems to bring me nearer to Leila."
+
+This from Barry, the dawdler!  And she who had preached was whimpering
+about heat and cold, about long hours and hard work--as if these things
+matter!
+
+Why, life was a Great Adventure, and she had forgotten!
+
+And now she began to look about her--to find, if she could, some ray to
+illumine her workaday world.
+
+She found it in the friendliness and companionship of her office
+comrades--good comrades they were--fighting the battle of drudgery
+shoulder to shoulder, sharing the fortunes of the road, needing, some
+of them, the uplift of her courage, giving some of them more than they
+asked.
+
+As Mary grew into their lives, she grew away somewhat from her old
+crowd.  And if, at times, her gallant fight seemed futile--if at times
+she could not still the cry of her heart, it was because she was a
+woman, made to be loved, fitted for finer things and truer things than
+writing cabalistic signs on a tablet and transcribing them, later, on
+the typewriter.
+
+Leila had refused to be dropped from Mary's life.  She came, whenever
+she could, to walk a part of the way home with her friend, and the two
+girls would board a car and ride to the edge of the town, preferring to
+tramp along the edges of the Soldiers' Home or through the Park to the
+more formal promenade through the city streets.
+
+It was during these little adventures that Mary became conscious of
+certain reserves in the younger girl.  She was closely confidential,
+yet the open frankness of the old days was gone.
+
+Once Mary spoke of it.  "You've grown up, all in a minute, Leila," she
+said.  "You're such a quiet little mouse."
+
+Leila sighed.  "There's so much to think about."
+
+Watching her, Mary decided.  "It is harder for her than for Barry.  He
+has his work.  But she just waits and longs for him."
+
+In waiting and longing, Little-Lovely Leila grew more mouse-like than
+ever.  And at last Mary spoke to the General.  "She needs a change."
+
+He nodded.  "I know it.  I am thinking of taking her over in the
+spring."
+
+"How lovely.  Have you told her?"
+
+"No--I thought it would be a grand surprise."
+
+"Tell her now, dear General.  She needs to look forward."
+
+So the General, who had been kept in the house nearly all winter by his
+rheumatism, spoke of certain baths in Germany.
+
+"I thought I'd go over and try them," he informed his small daughter,
+on the day after his talk with Mary, "and you could stop and call on
+Barry."
+
+"Barry!"  She made a little rush toward him.  "Dad, _Dad_, do you mean
+it?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+She tucked her head into his shoulder and cried for happiness.  "Dad,
+I've missed him so."
+
+With this hope held out to her, Little-Lovely Leila grew radiant.  Once
+more her feet danced along the halls, and the music of her voice
+trilled bird-like in the big rooms.
+
+Delilah, discussing it with her artist, said: "Leila makes me believe
+in Romance with a big R.  But I couldn't love like that."
+
+Colin smiled.  "You'd love like a lioness.  I've subdued you outwardly,
+but within you are still primitive."
+
+"I wonder----" Delilah mused.
+
+"The man for you," Colin turned to her suddenly, "is Porter Bigelow.
+Of course I'm taking it from the artist's point of view.  You're made
+for each other--a pair of young gods--his red head just topping your
+black one--It was that way at the garden party; any one could see it."
+
+Delilah laughed.  "His eyes aren't for me.  With him it is Mary
+Ballard.  If I were in love with him, I should hate Mary.  But I don't;
+I love her.  And she's in love with Roger Poole."
+
+Colin looked up from the samples from which he and Delilah were
+choosing her spring wardrobe.
+
+"Poole?  I knew his wife," he said abruptly; "it was her picture that I
+showed you the other night--the little saint in the Fra Angelico
+pose--it didn't come to me until afterward that he might be the same
+Poole of whom I had heard you speak."
+
+Delilah swept across the room, and turned the canvas outward.  "Roger
+Poole's wife," she said, "of all things!"  Then she stood staring
+silently.
+
+"You didn't tell us who she was."
+
+"No," he was weighing mentally Porter's attitude in the matter, "no one
+knew but Bigelow."
+
+"And he showed this to Mary?"  They looked at each other, and laughed.
+"Perhaps all's fair in love," Delilah murmured, at last, "but I
+wouldn't have believed it of him."
+
+As she turned the picture toward the wall, Delilah decided, "Mary
+Ballard is worth a hundred of such women as this."
+
+"A woman like you is worth a hundred of them," Colin stated
+deliberately.
+
+Delilah flushed faintly.  Colin Quale was giving to her something which
+no other man had given.  And she liked it.
+
+"Do you know what you are doing to me?" she said, as she sat down by
+the window.  "You are making me think that I am like the pictures you
+paint of me."
+
+"You are," was the quiet response; "it's just a matter of getting
+beneath the surface."
+
+There was a pause during which his fingers and eyes were busy with the
+shining samples--then Delilah said: "If Leila and her father go to
+Germany in May, I'm going to get Dad to go too.  I don't suppose you'd
+care to join us?  You'll want to get back to that girl in Amesbury or
+Newburyport, or whatever it is."
+
+"What girl?"
+
+"The one you are going to marry."
+
+"There is no girl," said Colin quietly, "in Amesbury or Newburyport;
+there never has been and there never will be."  Coming close, he held
+against her cheek a sample of soft pale yellow.  "Leila Dick wears that
+a lot, but it's not for you."  He stood back and gazed at her
+meditatively.
+
+"Colin," she protested, "when you look at me that way, I feel like a
+wooden model."
+
+He smiled, "That's what you have come to mean to me," he said; "I don't
+want to think of you as a woman."
+
+"Why not?" asked daring Delilah.
+
+"Because it is, to say the least, disturbing."
+
+He occupied himself with his samples, shaking his head over them.
+
+"None of these will do for the Secretary's dinner.  You must have lace
+with many flounces caught up in the new fashion.  And I shall want your
+hair different.  Take it down."
+
+She was used to him now, and presently it fell about her in all its
+shining sable beauty; and as he separated the strands, it was like a
+thing alive under his hands.
+
+He crowned her head with the braids in a sort of old-fashioned coronet.
+And so arranged, the old fashion became a new fashion, and Delilah was
+like a queen.
+
+"You see--with the lace and your pearl ornaments.  There is nothing
+startling; but no one will be like you."
+
+And there was no one like her.  And because of the dress, which Colin
+had planned, and because of the way which he had taught her to do her
+hair, Delilah annexed to her train of admirers on the night of the
+Secretary's dinner a distinguished titled gentleman, who was looking
+for a wife to grace his ancestral halls--and who was impressed mightily
+by the fact that Delilah looked the part to perfection.
+
+He proposed to her in three weeks, and was so sure of his ability to
+get what he wanted that he was stunned by her answer:
+
+"Perhaps I'll make up my mind to it.  I'll give you your answer when I
+come over in the spring."
+
+"But I want my answer now."
+
+"I'm sorry.  But I can't."
+
+When she told Colin of her abrupt dismissal of the discomfited
+gentleman, she asked, almost plaintively, "Why couldn't I say 'yes' at
+once?  It is the thing I've always wanted."
+
+"Have you really wanted it?"
+
+"Of course."
+
+"Not of course.  You want other things more."
+
+"What for example?"
+
+"I think you know."
+
+She did know, and she drew a quick breath.  Then laughed.
+
+"You're trying to teach me to understand my--emotions, Colin, as you
+have taught me to understand my clothes."
+
+"You're an apt pupil."
+
+Tea came in, just then, and she poured for him, telling his fortune
+afterward in his teacup.
+
+"Are you superstitious?" she asked him, having worked out a future of
+conventional happiness and success.
+
+"Not enough to believe what you have told me."  He was flickering his
+pale lashes and smiling.  "Life shall bring me what I want because I
+shall make it come."
+
+"Oh, you think that?"
+
+"Yes.  All things are possible to those of us who believe they are
+possible."
+
+"Perhaps to a man.  But--to a woman.  There's Leila, for example.  I'm
+afraid----"
+
+"You mustn't be.  Life will come right for her."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"It comes right for all of us, in one way or another.  You'll find it
+works out.  You're afraid for your little friend because of
+Ballard--he's pretty gay, eh?"
+
+"Yes.  More, I think, than she understands.  But everybody else knows
+that they sent him away for that.  And I can't see any way out.  If he
+marries her he'll break her heart; if he doesn't marry her he'll break
+it--and there you have it."
+
+"You must not put these 'ifs' in their way.  There'll be some way out."
+
+She rose and went to a table to a little cabinet which she unlocked.
+
+"You wouldn't let me have my crystal ball in evidence," she said,
+"because it doesn't fit in with the rest of my new furnishings--but it
+tells things."
+
+"What things?"
+
+"I'll show you."  She set it on the table between them.  "Put your hand
+on each side of it."
+
+He grasped it with his flexible fingers.  "Don't invent----" he warned.
+
+She began to speak slowly, and she was still at it when Porter's big
+car drove up to the door, and he came in with Mary and Leila.
+
+"I picked up these two on their way home," Porter explained; "it is
+raining pitchforks, and I'm in my open car.  And so, kind lady, dear
+lady, will you give us tea?"
+
+Colin and Delilah, each a little pale, breathing quickly, rose to greet
+their guests.
+
+"She's been telling my fortune," Colin informed them, while Delilah
+gave orders for more hot water and cups.  "It's a queer business."
+
+Porter scoffed.  "A fake, if there ever was one."
+
+Colin mused.  "Perhaps.  But she has the air of a seeress when she says
+it all--and she has me slated for a--masterpiece--and marriage."
+
+Leila, standing by the table, touched the crystal globe with doubtful
+fingers.  "Do you really see things, Delilah?"
+
+"Sit down, and I'll prove it."
+
+Leila shrank.  "Oh, no."
+
+But Porter insisted.  "Be a sport, Leila."
+
+So she settled herself in the chair which Colin had occupied, her curly
+locks half hiding her expectant eyes.
+
+And now Delilah looked, bending over the ball.
+
+There was a long silence.  Then Delilah seemed to shake herself, as one
+shakes off a trance.  She pushed the ball away from her with a sudden
+gesture.  "There's nothing," she said, in a stifled voice; "there's
+really nothing to tell, Leila."
+
+"I knew that you'd back out with all of us here to listen," Porter
+triumphed.
+
+But Colin saw more than that.
+
+"I think we want our tea," he said, "while it is hot," and he handed
+Delilah the cups, and busied himself to help her with the sugar and
+lemon, and to pass the little cakes, and all the time he talked in his
+pleasant half-cynical, half-earnest fashion, until their minds were
+carried on to other things.
+
+When at last they had gone, he came back to her quickly.
+
+"What was it?" he asked.  "What did you see in the ball?"
+
+She shivered.  "It was Barry.  Oh, Colin, I don't really believe in
+it--perhaps it was just my imagination because I am worried about
+Leila, but I saw Barry looking at me with such a white strange face out
+of the dark."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXI
+
+_In Which a Little Lady in Black Comes to Washington to Witness the
+Swearing-in of a Gentleman and a Scholar._
+
+
+It was in February that Roger wrote somewhat formally to ask if his
+Cousin Patty might have a room in Mary's big house during the coming
+inauguration.
+
+"She is supremely happy over the Democratic victory, but in spite of
+her advanced ideas, she is a timid little thing, and she has no
+knowledge of big cities.  I feel that many difficulties would be
+avoided if you could take her in.  I want her, too, to know you.  I had
+thought at first that I might come with her.  But I think not.  I am
+needed here."
+
+He did not say why he was needed.  He said little of himself and of his
+work.  And Mary wondered.  Had his enthusiasm waned?  Was he, after
+all, swayed by impulse, easily discouraged?  Was Porter right, and was
+Roger's failure in life due not to outside forces, but to weakness
+within himself?
+
+She wrote him that she should be glad to have Cousin Patty, and it was
+on the first of March that Cousin Patty came.
+
+Once in four years the capital city takes on a supreme holiday aspect.
+In other years there may be parades, in other years there may be
+pageants--it is an every-day affair, indeed, to hear up and down the
+Avenue the beat of music, and the tramp of many feet.  There are
+funerals of great men, with gun carriages draped with the flag, and
+with the Marine Band playing the "Dead March."  There are gay
+cavalcades rushing in from Fort Myer, to escort some celebrity; there
+are pathetic files of black folk, gorgeous in the insignia of some
+society which gives to its dead members the tribute of a
+conspicuousness which they have never known in life.  There are circus
+parades, and suffrage parades, minstrel parades and parades of the boys
+from the high schools--all the display of military and motley by which
+men advertise their importance and their wares.
+
+But the Inauguration is the one great and grand effort.  All work stops
+for it; all traffic stops for it; all of the policemen in the town
+patrol it; half the detectives in the country are imported to protect
+it.  All of fashion views it from the stands up-town; all of the
+underworld gazes at it from the south side of the street down-town.
+Packed trains bring the people.  And the people are crowded into hotels
+and boarding-houses, and into houses where thresholds are never crossed
+at any other time by paying guests.
+
+To the inauguration of 1913 was added another element of interest--the
+parade of the women, on the day preceding the changing of presidents.
+Hence the red and white and blue of former decorations were enlivened
+by the yellow and white and purple of the Suffrage colors.
+
+Cousin Patty wore a little knot of yellow ribbon when Porter met her at
+the station.
+
+Porter was not inclined to welcome any cousin of Roger Poole's with
+open arms.  But he knew his duty to Mary's guests.  He had offered his
+car, and had insisted that Mary should make use of it.
+
+"For Heaven's sake, don't make me utterly miserable by refusing to let
+me do anything for you, Mary," he had said, when she had protested.
+"It is the only pleasure I have."
+
+Cousin Patty, in spite of Porter's preconceived prejudices, made at
+once a place for herself.  She gave him her little bag, and with a sigh
+of such infinite relief, her eyes like a confiding child's, that he
+laughed and bent down to her.
+
+"Mary Ballard is in my car outside.  I didn't want her to get into this
+crowd."
+
+Cousin Patty shuddered.  "Crowd!  I've never seen anything like--the
+people.  I didn't know there were so many in the world.  You see, I've
+never been far away from home.  And they kept pouring in from all the
+stations, and when I reached here and stood on the steps of the
+Pullman, and saw the masses streaming in ail directions, I felt
+faint--but the conductor pointed out the way to go, and then I saw
+your--lovely head."
+
+She said it so sincerely that Porter laughed.
+
+"Miss Carew," he said, "I believe you mean it."
+
+"Mean what?"
+
+"That it's a lovely head."
+
+"It is."  The dark eyes were shining.  "You were so tall that I could
+see you above the people, and Roger had described how you would look.
+Mary Ballard had said you would surely be here to meet me, and now--oh,
+I'm really in Washington!"
+
+If she had said, "I'm really in Paradise," it could not have expressed
+more supreme bliss.
+
+"I never expected to be here," Cousin Patty went on to explain, as they
+crossed the concourse, and Porter guided her through the crowd.  "I
+never expected it.  And now Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard has promised
+to show me everything."
+
+Roger's beautiful Mary Ballard, indeed!
+
+"Miss Ballard," he said, stiffly, "is taking a week off from her work.
+And she is going to devote it to sightseeing with you."
+
+"Yes, Roger told me.  Is that Mary smiling from that big car?  Oh, Mary
+Ballard, I knew you'd be just--like this."
+
+Well, nobody could resist Cousin Patty.  There was that in her charming
+voice, in her vivid personality which set her apart from other
+middle-aged and well-bred women of her type.
+
+Porter made a wide sweep to take in the Capitol and the Library; then
+he flew up the Avenue, disfigured now by the stands from which people
+were to view the parade.
+
+But Cousin Patty's eyes went beyond the stand to the tall straight
+shaft of the Monument in the distance, and when they passed the White
+House, she simply settled back in her seat and sighed.
+
+"To think that, after all these years, there'll be a gentleman and a
+scholar to live there."
+
+"There have been other scholars--and gentlemen," Mary reminded her.
+
+"Of course, my dear.  But this is different.  You see, in our section
+of the country a Republican is just a--Republican.  And a Democrat is
+a--gentleman."
+
+Mary's eyes were dancing.  "Cousin Patty," she said, "may I call you
+Cousin Patty?  What will you do when women vote?  Will the women who
+are Republicans be ladies?"
+
+"Oh, now you are laughing at me," Cousin Patty said, helplessly.
+
+Mary gave Cousin Patty the suite next to Aunt Isabelle's, and the two
+gentle ladies smiled and kissed in the fashion of their time, and
+became friends at once.
+
+When Cousin Patty had unpacked her bag, and had put all of her nice
+little belongings away, she tripped across the threshold of the door
+between the two rooms, to talk to Aunt Isabelle.
+
+"Mary said that we should be going to the theater to-night with Mr.
+Bigelow.  You must tell me what to wear, please.  You see I've been out
+of the world so long."
+
+"But you are more of it than I," Aunt Isabelle reminded her.
+
+Cousin Patty, in her pretty wrapper, sat down in a rocking-chair
+comfortably to discuss it.  "What do you mean?"
+
+"Mary has been telling me how far ahead of me your thoughts have flown.
+You're taking up all the new questions, and you're a successful woman
+of business.  I have envied you ever since I heard about the wedding
+cake."
+
+"It's a good business," said Cousin Patty, "and I can do it at home.  I
+couldn't have gone out in the world to make my fight for a living.  I
+can defy men in theory; but I'm really Southern and feminine--if you
+know what that means," she laughed happily.  "Of course I never let
+them know it, not even Roger."
+
+And now Mary came in, lovely in her white dinner gown.
+
+"Oh," she accused them, "you aren't ready."
+
+Cousin Patty rose.  "I wanted to know what to wear, and we've talked an
+hour, and haven't said a word about it."
+
+"Don't bother," Mary said; "there'll be just four of us."
+
+"But I want to bother.  Roger helped me to plan my things.  He
+remembered every single dress you wore while he was here."
+
+"Really?"  The look which Roger had loved was creeping into Mary's
+clear eyes.  "Really, Cousin Patty?"
+
+"Yes.  He drew a sketch of your velvet wrap with the fur, and I made
+mine like it, only I put a frill in place of the fur."  She trotted
+into her room and brought it back for Mary's inspection.  "Is it all
+right?" she asked, anxiously, as she slipped it on, and craned her neck
+in front of Aunt Isabelle's long mirror to see the sweep of the folds.
+
+"It is perfect; and to think he should remember."
+
+Cousin Patty gave her a swift glance.  "That isn't all he has
+remembered," she said, succinctly.
+
+It developed when they went down for dinner that Roger had ordered a
+box of flowers for them--purple violets for Aunt Isabelle and Cousin
+Patty, white violets for Mary.
+
+"How lovely," Mary said, bending over the box of sweetness.  "I am
+perfectly sure no one ever sent me white violets before."
+
+There were other flowers--orchids from Porter.
+
+"And now--which will you wear?" demanded sprightly Cousin Patty, an
+undercurrent of anxiety in her tone.
+
+Mary wore the violets, and Porter gloomed all through the play.
+
+"So my orchids weren't good enough," he said, as she sat beside him on
+their way to the hotel where they were to have supper.
+
+"They were lovely, Porter."
+
+"But you liked the violets better?  Who sent them, Mary?"
+
+"Don't ask in that tone."
+
+"You don't want to tell me."
+
+"It isn't that--it's your manner."  She broke off to say pleadingly,
+"Don't let us quarrel over it.  Let me forget for to-night that there's
+any discord in the world--any work--any worry.  Let me be Contrary
+Mary--happy, care-free, until it all begins over again in the morning."
+
+Very softly she said it, and there were tears in her voice.  He glanced
+down at her in surprise.  "Is that the way life looks to you--you poor
+little thing?"
+
+"Yes, and when you are cross, you make it harder."
+
+Thus, woman-like, she put him in the wrong, and the question of violets
+vs. orchids was shelved.
+
+Presently, in the great red dining-room, Porter was ordering things for
+Cousin Patty's delectation of which she had never heard.  Her enjoyment
+of the novelty of it all was refreshing.  She tasted and ate and looked
+about her as frankly as a happy child, yet never, with it all, lost her
+little air of serene dignity, which set her apart from the flaming,
+flaring type of femininity which abounds in such places.
+
+The great spectacle of the crowded rooms made a deep impression on
+Cousin Patty.  To her this was no gathering of people who were eating
+too much and drinking too much, and who were taking from the night the
+hours which should have been given to sleep.  To her it
+was--fairy-land; all of the women were lovely, all of the men
+celebrities--and the gold of the lights, the pink of the azaleas which
+were everywhere in pots, the murmur of voices, the sweet insistence of
+the music in the balcony, the trail of laughter over it all--these were
+magical things, which might disappear at any moment, and leave her
+among her boxes of wedding cake, after the clock struck twelve.
+
+But it did not disappear, and she went home happy and too tired to talk.
+
+At breakfast the next morning, Mary announced their programme for the
+day.
+
+"Delilah has telephoned that she wants us to have lunch with her at the
+Capitol.  Her father is in Congress, Cousin Patty, and they will show
+us everything worth seeing.  Then we'll go for a ride and have tea
+somewhere, and the General and Leila have asked us for dinner.  Shall
+you be too tired?"
+
+"Tired?"  Cousin Patty's laugh trilled like the song of a bird.  "I
+feel as if I were on wings."
+
+Cousin Patty trod the steps of the historic Capitol with awe.  To her
+these halls of legislation were sacred to the memory of Henry Clay and
+of Daniel Webster.  Every congressman was a Personage--and many a
+simple man, torn between his desire to serve his constituents, and his
+need to placate the big interests of his state, would have been touched
+by the faith of this little Southern lady in his integrity.
+
+"A man couldn't walk through here, with the statues of great men
+confronting him, and the pictures of other great men looking down on
+him, and the shades of those who have gone before him haunting the
+shadows and whispering from the galleries, without feeling that he was
+uplifted by their influence," she whispered to Mary, as from the
+Member's Gallery she gazed down at the languid gentlemen who lounged in
+their seats and listened with blank faces to one of their number who
+was speaking against time.
+
+Colin Quale, who lunched with them, was delighted with her.
+
+"She is an example of what I've been trying to show you," he said to
+Delilah.  "She is so well bred that she absolutely lacks
+self-consciousness, and she is so clear-minded that you can't muddy her
+thoughts with scandals of this naughty world.  She is a type worthy of
+your study."
+
+"Colin," Delilah questioned, with a funny little smile, "is this a
+'back to grandma' movement that you are planning for me?"
+
+The pale little man flickered his blond lashes, but his face was grave.
+
+"No," he said, "but I want you to be abreast of the times.  There's
+going to be a reaction from this reign of the bizarre.  We've gone long
+enough to harems and odalisques for our styles and our manners and
+presently we are going to see the blossoming of old-fashioned beauty."
+
+"And do you think the old manners and morals will come?"
+
+He shrugged.  "Who knows?  We can only hope."
+
+It was to Colin that Cousin Patty spoke confidingly of her admiration
+of Delilah.  "She's beautiful," she said.  "Mary says that you plan her
+dresses.  I never thought that a man could do such things until Roger
+took such an interest."
+
+"Men of to-day take an interest," Colin said.  "Woman's dress is one
+branch of art.  It is worthy of a man's best powers because it adds to
+the beauty of the world."
+
+"That's the funny part of it," Cousin Patty ventured; "women are taking
+up men's work, and men are taking up women's--it is all topsy turvy."
+
+The little artist pondered.  "Perhaps in the end they'll understand
+each other better."
+
+"Do you think they will?"
+
+"Yes.  The woman who does a man's work learns to know what fighting
+means.  The man who makes a study of feminine things begins to see back
+of what has seemed mere frivolity and love of admiration a desire for
+harmony and beauty, and self-expression.  Some day women will come back
+to simplicity and to the home, because they will have learned things
+from men and will have taught things to men, and by mutual
+understanding each will choose the best."
+
+Cousin Patty was inspired by the thought.  "I never heard any one put
+it that way before."
+
+"Perhaps not--but I have seen much of the world--and of men--and of
+women."
+
+"Yet all women are not alike."
+
+"No."  His eyes swept the table.  "You three--Miss Ballard, Miss
+Jeliffe--how far apart--yet you're all women--all, I may say, awakened
+women--refusing to follow the straight and narrow path of the old
+ideal.  Isn't it so?"
+
+"Yes.  I'm in business--none of our women has ever been in business.
+Mary won't marry for a home--yet all of her women have, consciously or
+unconsciously, married for a home.  And Miss Jeliffe I don't know well
+enough to judge.  But I fancy she'll blaze a way for herself."
+
+His eyes rested on Delilah.  "She has blazed a way," he said, slowly;
+"she's a most remarkable woman."
+
+Delilah, looking up, caught his glance and smiled.
+
+"Are they in love with each other?" Cousin Patty asked Mary that night.
+
+Mary laughed.  "Delilah's a will-o'-the-wisp; who knows?"
+
+With their days filled, there was little time for intimacy or
+confidential talks between Mary and Cousin Patty.  And since Mary would
+not ask questions about Roger, and since Cousin Patty seemed to have
+certain reserves in his direction, it was only meager information which
+trickled out; and with this Mary was forced to be content.
+
+Grace marched in the Suffrage Parade, and they applauded her from their
+seats on the Treasury stand.  Aunt Frances, who sat with them, was
+filled with indignation.
+
+"To think that _my_ daughter----"
+
+Cousin Patty threw down the gauntlet: "Why not your daughter, Mrs.
+Clendenning?"
+
+"Because the women of our family have always been--different."
+
+"So have the women of my family," calmly, "but that's no reason why we
+should expect to stand still.  None of the women of my family ever made
+wedding cake for a living.  But that isn't any reason why I should
+starve, is it?"
+
+Aunt Frances shifted the argument.  "But to march--on the street."
+
+"That's their way of expressing themselves.  Men march--and have
+marched since the beginning.  Sometimes their marching doesn't mean
+anything, and sometimes it does.  And I'm inclined," said Cousin Patty
+with an emphatic nod of her head, "to think that this marching means a
+great deal."
+
+On and on they came, these women who marched for a Cause, heads up,
+eyes shining.  There had been something to bear at the other end of the
+line where the crowd had pressed in upon them, and there had been no
+adequate police protection, but they were ready for martyrdom, if need
+be, perhaps, some of them would even welcome it.
+
+But Grace was no fanatic.  She met them afterward, and told of her
+experience gleefully.
+
+"You should have been with me, Mary," she said.
+
+Porter rose in his wrath.  "What has bewitched you women?" he demanded.
+"Do you all believe in it?"
+
+And now Leila piped, "I don't want to march.  I don't want to do the
+things that men do.  I want to have a nice little house, and cook and
+sew, and take care of somebody."
+
+They all laughed.  But Porter surveyed Leila with satisfaction.
+
+"Barry's a lucky fellow," he said.
+
+"Oh, Porter," Mary reproached him, as he helped her down from her high
+seat on the stand.
+
+"Well, he is.  Leila couldn't keep her nice little house any better
+than you, Mary.  But the thing is that she _wants_ to keep it for
+Barry.  And you--you want to march on the street--and laugh--at love."
+
+She surveyed him coldly.  "That shows just how much you understand me,"
+she said, and turned her back on him and accepted an invitation to ride
+home in the Jeliffes' car.
+
+On the day of the Inauguration, the same party had seats on the stand
+opposite the one in front of the White House from which the President
+reviewed the troops.
+
+And it was upon the President that Cousin Patty riveted her attention.
+To be sure her little feet beat time to the music, and she flushed and
+glowed as the soldiers swept by, and the horses danced, and the people
+cheered.  But above and beyond all these things was the sight of the
+man, who in her eyes represented the resurrection of the South--the man
+who should sway it back to its old level in the affairs of the nation.
+
+"I couldn't have dreamed," she emphasized, as she talked it over that
+night with Mary, "of anything so satisfying as his smile.  I shall
+always think of him as smiling out in that quiet way of his at the
+people."
+
+Mary had a vision of another Inauguration and of another President who
+had smiled--a President who had captured the hearts of his countrymen
+as perhaps this scholar never would.  It was at the shrine of that
+strenuous and smiling President that Mary still worshiped.  But they
+were both great men--it was for the future to tell which would live
+longest in the hearts of the people.
+
+The two women were in Cousin Patty's room.  They were too excited to
+sleep, for the events of the day had been stimulating.  Cousin Patty
+had suggested that Mary should get into something comfortable, and come
+back and talk.  And Mary had come, in a flowing blue gown with her fair
+hair in shining braids.  They were alone together for the first time
+since Cousin Patty's arrival.  It was a moment for which Mary had
+waited eagerly, yet now that it had come to her, she hardly knew how to
+begin.
+
+But when she spoke, it was with an impulsive reaching out of her hands
+to the older woman.
+
+"Cousin Patty, tell me about Roger Poole."
+
+Cousin Patty hesitated, then asked a question, almost sharply, "My
+dear, why did you fail him?"
+
+The color flooded Mary's face.  "Fail him?" she faltered.
+
+"Yes.  When he first came to me, there were your letters.  He used to
+read bits of them aloud, and I could see inspiration in them for him.
+Then he stopped reading them to me, and they seemed to bring heaviness
+with them--I can't tell you how unhappy he was until he began to make
+his work fill his life.  Do you mind telling me what made the change in
+you, my dear?"
+
+Mary gazed into the fire, the blood still in her face.
+
+"Cousin Patty, did you know his wife?"
+
+"Yes.  Is it because of her, Mary?"
+
+"Yes.  After Roger went away, I saw her picture.  Colin had painted it.
+And, Cousin Patty, it seemed the face of such a little--saint."
+
+"Yet Roger told you his story?"
+
+"Yes."
+
+"And you didn't believe him?"
+
+"Oh, I don't know what to believe."
+
+"I see," but Cousin Patty's manner was remote.
+
+Mary slipped down to the stool at Cousin Patty's feet, and brought her
+clear eyes to the level of the little lady's.  "Dear Cousin Patty," she
+implored, "if you only know how I _want_ to believe in Roger Poole."
+
+Cousin Patty melted.  "My dear," she said with decision, "I'm going to
+tell you everything."
+
+And now woman's heart spoke to woman's heart.  "I visited them in the
+first year of their marriage.  I wanted to love his wife, and at first
+she seemed charming.  But I hadn't been there a week before I was
+puzzling over her.  She was made of different clay from Roger.  In the
+intimacy of that home I discovered that she wasn't--a lady--not in our
+nice old-fashioned sense of good manners, and good morals.  She said
+things that you and I couldn't say, and she did things.  I felt the
+catastrophe in the air long before it came.  But I couldn't warn Roger.
+I just had to let him find out.  I wasn't there when the blow fell; but
+I'll tell you this, that Roger may have been a quixotic idiot in the
+eyes of the world, but if he failed it was because he was a dreamer,
+and an idealist, not a coward and a shirk."  Her eyes were blazing.
+"Oh, if you could hear what some people said of him, Mary."
+
+Mary could fancy what they had said.
+
+"Oh, Cousin Patty, Cousin Patty," she cried, "Do you think he will ever
+forgive me?  I have let such people talk to me, and I have listened!"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXII
+
+_In Which the Garden Begins to Bloom; and in Which Roger Dreams._
+
+
+March, which brings to the North sharp winds and gray days, brings to
+the sand-hill country its season of greatest beauty.
+
+Straight up from the unpromising soil springs the green--the pines bud
+and blossom, everywhere there is the delicate tracery of pale leafage,
+there is the white of dogwood, the pink of peach trees and of apple
+bloom, and again the white of cherry trees and of bridal bush.  There
+are amethystine vistas, and emerald vistas, and vistas of rose and
+saffron--the cardinals burn with a red flame in the magnolias, the
+mocking-birds sing in the moonlight.
+
+It was through the awakened world that Roger drove one Sunday to preach
+to his people.
+
+He did not call it preaching.  As yet his humility gave it no such
+important name.  He simply went into the sand-hills and talked to those
+who were eager to hear.  Beginning with the boy, he had found that
+these thirsty souls drank at any spring.  The boys listened breathless
+to his tales of chivalry, the men to his tales of what other men had
+achieved, the women were reached by stories of what their children
+might be, and the children rose to his bait of fairy books and of
+colored pictures.
+
+Gradually he had gone beyond the tales of chivalry and the achievements
+of men.  Gradually he had brought them up and up.  Other men had
+preached to them, but their preaching had not been linked with lessons
+of living.  Others had cried, "Repent," but not one of them had laid
+emphasis on the fact that repentance was evidenced by the life which
+followed.
+
+But Roger stood among them, his young face grave, his wonderful voice
+persuasive, and told them what it meant to be--saved.  Planting hope
+first in their hearts, he led them toward the Christ-ideal.  Manhood,
+he said, at its best was godlike; one must have purity, energy,
+education, growth.
+
+And they, who listened, began to see that it was a spiritual as well as
+practical thing to set their houses in order, to plant and to till and
+to make the soil produce.  They saw in the future a community which was
+orderly and law-abiding, they saw their children brought out of the
+bondage of ignorance and into the freedom of knowledge.  And they saw
+more than that--they saw the Vision, faintly at first, but with
+ever-increasing clearness.
+
+It was a wonderful task which Roger had set for himself, and he threw
+himself into his work with flaming energy.  He hired a buggy and a
+little fat horse, and spent some of his nights _en route_ in the houses
+of his friends along the way; other nights--and these were the ones he
+liked best--he slept under the pines.  With John Ballard's old Bible
+under his arm, and his prayer-book in his pocket, he went forth each
+week, and always he found a congregation ready and waiting.
+
+Over the stretches of that barren country they came to hear him,
+sailing in their schooner-wagons toward the harbor of the hope which he
+brought to them.
+
+When he had preached from his pulpit, he had talked to men and women of
+culture and he had spent much of his time in polishing a phrase, or in
+rounding out a sentence.  But now he spent his time in search of the
+clear words which would carry his--message.
+
+For Mary had said that every man who preached must have a message.
+
+Mary!
+
+How far she had receded from him.  When he thought of her now it was
+with a sense of overwhelming loss.  She had chosen to withdraw herself
+from him.  In every letter he had seen signs of it--and he could not
+protest.  No man in his position could say to a woman, "I will not let
+you go."  He had nothing to offer her but his life in the pines, a life
+that could not mean much to such a woman.
+
+But it meant much to himself.  Gradually he had come to see that love
+alone could never have brought to him what his work was bringing.  He
+had a sense of freedom such as one must have whose shackles have been
+struck off.  He began to know now what Mary had meant when she had
+said, "I feel as if I were flying through the world on strong wings."
+He, too, felt as if he were flying, and as it his wings were carrying
+him up and up beyond any heights to which he had hitherto soared.
+
+He slept that night in one of the rare groves of old pines.  He made a
+couch of the brown needles and threw a rug over them.  The air was soft
+and heavy with resinous perfume.  As he lay there in the stillness, the
+pines stretched above him like the arches of some great cathedral.  His
+text came to him, "Come thou south wind and blow upon my garden."  It
+was a simple people to whom he would talk on the morrow, but these
+things they could understand--the winds of heaven, and the stars, and
+the little foxes that could spoil the grapes.
+
+When he woke there was a mocking-bird singing.  He had gone to sleep
+obsessed by his sermon, uplifted.  He woke with a sense of
+loneliness--a great longing for human help and understanding--a longing
+to look once more into Mary Ballard's clear eyes and to draw strength
+from the source which had once inspired him.
+
+John Ballard's Bible lay on the rug beside him.  He opened it, and the
+leaves fell apart at a page where a rose had once been pressed.  The
+rose was dead now, and had been laid away carefully, lest it should be
+lost.  But the impress was still there, as the memory of Mary's frank
+friendliness was still in his mind.
+
+It was a long time before he closed the book.  But at last he sighed
+and rose from his couch.  It was inevitable, this drifting apart.  Fate
+would hold for Mary some brilliant future.  As for him, he must go on
+with his work alone.
+
+Yet he realized, even in that moment of renunciation, that it was a
+wonderful thing that he could at last go on alone.  A year ago he had
+needed all of Mary's strength to spur him to the effort, all of her
+belief in him.  Now with his heart still crying out for her, needing
+her, he could still go on alone!
+
+He drew a long breath, and looked up through the singing tree-tops to
+the bit of sky above.  He stood there for a long time, silent, looking
+up into the shining sky.
+
+At ten o'clock when he entered the circle of young pines, his
+congregation was ready for him, sitting on the rough seats which the
+men had fashioned, their eager faces welcoming him, their eyes lighted.
+
+The children whom he had taught led in the singing of the simple old
+hymns, and Roger read a prayer.
+
+Then he talked.  He withheld nothing of the poetry of his subject; and
+they rose to his eloquence.  And when light began to fill a man's eyes
+or tears to fill a woman's--Roger knew that the work of the soul was
+well begun.
+
+Afterward he went among them, becoming one of them in friendliness and
+sympathy, but set apart and consecrated by the wisdom which made him
+their leader.
+
+Among a group of men he spoke of politics.  "There's the new
+President," he said; "it has been a great week in Washington.  His
+administration ought to mean great things for you people down here."
+
+Thus he roused their interest; thus he led them to ask questions; thus
+he drew them into eager controversy; thus he waked their minds into
+activity; thus he roused their sluggish souls.
+
+But he found his keenest delight in the children's gardens.
+
+They were such lovely little gardens now--with violets blooming in
+their borders, with daffodils and jonquils and hyacinths.  Every bit of
+bloom spoke to him of Mary.  Not for one moment had she lost her
+interest in the children's gardens, although she had ceased, it seemed,
+to have interest in any other of his affairs.
+
+Before he went, the children had to have their fairy tale.  But
+to-night he would not tell them Cinderella or Red Riding Hood.  The day
+seemed to demand something more than that, so he told them the story of
+the ninety and nine, and of the sheep that was lost.
+
+He made much of the story of the sheep, showing to these children, who
+knew little of shepherds and little of mountains, a picture which held
+them breathless.  For far back, perhaps, the ancestors of these
+sand-hill folk had herded sheep on the hills of Scotland.
+
+Then he sang the song, and so well did he tell the story and so well
+did he sing the song that they rejoiced with him over the sheep that
+was found--for he had made it a little lamb--helpless and bleating, and
+wanting very much its mother.
+
+The song, borne on the wings of the wind, reached the ears of a man
+with a worn face, who slouched in the shadow of the pines.
+
+Later he spoke to Roger Poole.  "I reckon I'm that lost sheep," he
+said, soberly, "an' nobody ain't gone out to find me--yit."
+
+"Find yourself," said Roger.
+
+The man stared.
+
+"Find yourself," Roger said; "look at those little gardens over there
+that the children have made.  Can you match them?"
+
+"I reckon I've got somethin' else to do beside make gardens," drawled
+the man.
+
+"What have you got to do that's better?" Roger demanded.
+
+The man hesitated and Roger pressed his point.  "Flowers for the
+children--crops for men--I'll wager you've a lot of land and don't know
+what to do with it.  Let's try to make things grow."
+
+"Us?  You mean you and me, parson?"
+
+"Yes.  And while we plant and sow, we'll talk about the state of your
+soul."  Roger reached out his hand to the lean and lank sinner.
+
+And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
+in the back of his eyes.
+
+"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
+shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
+through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
+somethin' in me that's bound to grow."
+
+In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
+his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.
+
+It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
+seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence.  The little lady was
+still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
+more when the rush was over.
+
+At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters.  There
+was one on top from Mary Ballard.
+
+Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house.  It
+contained only a scribbled line--but it set his pulses bounding.
+
+
+"DEAR ROGER POOLE:
+
+"I want to be friends again.  Such friends as we were in the Tower
+Rooms.  I know I don't deserve it--but--please.
+
+"MARY BALLARD."
+
+
+It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
+merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
+chorus of the universe.  It seemed an astounding thing that she should
+have written thus to him.  He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
+repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
+believe that such happiness could be his.  Yet she had written it; that
+she wanted to be--his friend.
+
+At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship.  But as he sat
+down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
+since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
+to him than friend.
+
+And why not?  Why shouldn't he dream?  Mary was not like other women.
+She looked above and beyond the little things.  Might not a man offer
+her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
+Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
+love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
+in the sand-hills bloom?
+
+And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here
+beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
+perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
+scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
+pine--with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.
+
+He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the
+sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain
+luxuries of cushions and rugs.  He saw her with him in deep still
+groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,
+meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness.  He
+saw--oh, dream of dreams--he saw a little white church among the
+sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not
+heard before Whittington rang them all for him.  Later, perhaps, there
+might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden--and Mary
+in the garden.
+
+So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,
+needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and
+space toward the goal of happiness.
+
+He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.
+
+"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said.  "A telegraf
+done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."
+
+She handed it to him, and watched him anxiously as he opened it.
+
+It was from Cousin Patty.
+
+"Mary has had sad news of Barry.  We need you.  Can you come?"
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIII
+
+_In Which Little-Lovely Leila Looks Forward to the Month of May; and in
+Which Barry Rides Into a Town With Narrow Streets._
+
+
+It was when Little-Lovely Leila was choosing certain gowns for her trip
+abroad that she had almost given away her secret to Delilah.
+
+"I want a yellow one," she had remarked, "with a primrose hat, like I
+wore when Barry and I----"  She stopped, blushing furiously.
+
+"When you and Barry what?" demanded Delilah.
+
+Leila having started to say, "When Barry and I ran away to be married,"
+stumbled over a substitute, "Well, I wore a yellow gown--when--when----"
+
+"Not when he proposed, duckie.  That was the day at Fort Myer.  I knew
+it the minute I came out and saw your face; and then that telephone
+message about the picture.  Were you really jealous when you found it
+on my table?"
+
+"Dreadfully."  Leila breathed freely once more.  The subject of the
+primrose gown was shelved safely.
+
+"You needn't have been.  All the world knew that Barry was yours."
+
+"And he's mine now," Leila laughed; "and I am to see him in--May."
+
+In the days which followed she was a very busy little Leila.  On every
+pretty garment that she made or bought, she embroidered in fine silk a
+wreath of primroses.  It was her own delicious secret, this adopting of
+her bridal color.  Other brides might be married in white, but she had
+been different--her gown had been the color of the great gold moon that
+had lighted their way.  What a wedding journey it had been--and how she
+and Barry would laugh over it in the years to come!
+
+For the tragedy which had weighed so heavily began now to seem like a
+happy comedy.  In a few weeks she would see Barry, in a few weeks all
+the world would know that she was his wife!
+
+So she packed her fragrant boxes--so she embroidered, and sang, and
+dreamed.
+
+Barry had written that he was "making good"; and that when she came he
+would tell Gordon.  And the General should go on to Germany, and he and
+Leila would have their honeymoon trip.
+
+"You must decide where we shall go," he had said, and Leila had planned
+joyously.
+
+"Dad and I motored once into Scotland, and we stopped at a little town
+for tea.  Such a queer little story-book town, Barry, with funny houses
+and with the streets so narrow that the people leaned out of their
+windows and gossiped over our heads, and I am sure they could have
+shaken hands across.  There wasn't even room for our car to turn
+around, and we had to go on and on until we came to the edge of the
+town, and there was the dearest inn.  We stopped and stayed that
+night--and the linen all smelled of lavender, and there was a sweet
+dumpling of a landlady, and old-fashioned flowers in a trim little
+garden--and all the hills beyond and a lake.  Let's go there, Barry; it
+will be beautiful."
+
+They planned, too, to go into lodgings afterward in London.
+
+The thought of lodgings gave Leila a thrill.  She hunted out her fat
+little volume of Martin Chuzzlewit and gloated over Ruth Pinch and her
+beef-steak pie.  She added two or three captivating aprons to the
+contents of the fragrant boxes.  She even bought a cook-book, and it
+was with a sigh that she laid the cook-book away when Barry wrote that
+in such lodgings as he would choose the landlady would serve their
+meals in the sitting-room.  And this plan would give Leila more time to
+see the sights of London!
+
+But what cared Little-Lovely Leila for seeing sights?  Anybody could
+see sights--any dreary and dried-up fossil, any crabbed and cranky old
+maid--the Tower and Westminster Abbey were for those who had nothing
+better to do.  As for herself, her horizon just now was bounded by
+primrose wreaths and fragrant boxes, and the promise of seeing Barry in
+May!
+
+But fate, which has strange things in store for all of us, had this in
+store for little Leila, that she was not to see Barry in May, and the
+reason that she was not to see him was Jerry Tuckerman.
+
+Meeting Mary in the street one day early in February, Jerry had said,
+"I am going to run over to London this week.  Shall I take your best to
+Barry?"
+
+Mary's eyes had met his squarely.  "Be sure you take _your_ best,
+Jerry," she had said.
+
+He had laughed his defiance.  "Barry's all right--but you've got to
+give him a little rope, Mary."
+
+When he had left her, Mary had walked on slowly, her heart filled with
+foreboding.  Barry was not like Jerry.  Jerry, coarse of fiber, lacking
+temperament, would probably come to middle age safely--he would never
+be called upon to pay the piper as Barry would for dancing to the tune
+of the follies of youth.
+
+She wrote to Gordon, warning him.  "Keep Barry busy," she said.  "Jerry
+told me that he intended to have 'the time of his young life'--and he
+will want Barry to share it."
+
+Gordon smiled over the letter.  "Poor Mary," he told Constance; "she
+has carried Barry for so long on her shoulders, and she can't realize
+that he is at last learning to stand alone."
+
+But Constance did not smile.  "We never could bear Jerry Tuckerman; he
+always made Barry do things."
+
+"Nobody can make me do things when I don't want to do them," said
+Gordon comfortably and priggishly, "and Barry must learn that he can't
+put the blame on anybody's shoulders but his own."
+
+Constance sighed.  She did not quite share Gordon's sense of security.
+Barry was different.  He was a dear, and trying so hard; but Jerry had
+always had some power to sway him from his best, a sinister
+inexplicable influence.
+
+Jerry, arriving, hung around Barry for several days, tempting him, like
+the villain in the play.
+
+But Barry refused to be tempted.  He was busy--and he had just had a
+letter from Leila.
+
+"I simply can't run around town with you, Tuckerman," he explained.
+"Holding down a job in an office like this isn't like holding down a
+government job."
+
+"So they've put your nose to the grindstone?" Jerry grinned as he said
+it, and Barry flushed.  "I like it, Tuckerman; there's something ahead,
+and Gordon has me slated for a promotion."
+
+But what did a promotion mean to Jerry's millions?  And Barry was good
+company, and anyhow--oh, he couldn't see Ballard doing a steady stunt
+like this.
+
+"Motor into Scotland with me next week," he insisted; "get a week off,
+and I'll pick up a gay party.  It's a bit early, but we'll stop in the
+big towns."
+
+Barry shook his head.
+
+"Leila and the General are coming over in May--she wants to take that
+trip--and, anyhow, I can't get away."
+
+"Oh, well, wait and take your nice little ride with Leila," Jerry said,
+good-naturedly enough, "but don't tie yourself too soon to a woman's
+apron string, Ballard--wait till you've had your fling."
+
+But Barry didn't want a fling.  He, too, was dreaming.  On
+half-holidays and Sundays he haunted neighborhoods where there were
+rooms to let.  And when one day he chanced on a sunshiny suite where a
+pot of primroses bloomed in the window, he lingered and looked.
+
+"If they're empty a month from now I'll take them," he said.
+
+"A guinea down and I'll keep them for you," was the smiling response of
+the pleasant landlady.
+
+So Barry blushingly paid the guinea, and began to buy little things to
+make the rooms beautiful--a bamboo basket for flowers--a Sheffield
+tray--a quaint tea-caddy--an antique footstool for Leila's little feet.
+
+Yet there were moments in the midst of his elation when some chill
+breath of fear touched him, and it was in one of these moods that he
+wrote out of his heart to his little bride.
+
+"Sometimes, when I think of you, sweetheart, I realize how little there
+is in me which is deserving of that which you are giving me.  When your
+letters come, I read them and think and think about them.  And the
+thing I think is this: Am I going to be able all my life to live up to
+your expectations?  Don't expect too much, dear heart.  I wonder if I
+am more cowardly about facing life than other men.  Now and then things
+seem to loom up in front of me--great shadows which block my way--and I
+grow afraid that I can't push them out of your path and mine.  And if I
+should not push them, what then?  Would they engulf you, and should I
+be to blame?"
+
+Mary found Leila puzzling over this letter.  "It doesn't sound like
+Barry," she said, in a little frightened voice.  "May I read it to you,
+Mary?"
+
+Mary had stopped in for tea on her way home from the office.  But the
+tea waited.
+
+"Barry is usually so--hopeful," Leila said, when she had finished;
+"somehow I can't help--worrying."
+
+Mary was worried.  She knew these moods.  Barry had them when he was
+fighting "blue devils."  She was afraid--haunted by the thought of
+Jerry.  She tried to speak cheerfully.
+
+"You'll be going over soon," she said, "and then all the world will be
+bright to him."
+
+Leila hesitated.  "I wish," she faltered, "that I could be with him now
+to help him--fight."
+
+Mary gave her a startled glance.  Their eyes met.
+
+"Leila," Mary said, with a little gasp, "who told you?"
+
+"Barry"--the tea was forgotten--"before--before he went away."  The
+vision was upon her of that moment when he had knelt at her feet on
+their bridal night.
+
+Haltingly, she spoke of her lover's weakness.  "I've wanted to ask you,
+Mary, and when this letter came, I just had to ask.  If you think it
+would be better--if we were married, if I could make a home for him."
+
+"It wouldn't be better for you."
+
+"I don't want to think about myself," Leila said, passionately;
+"everybody thinks about me.  It is Barry I want to think of, Mary."
+
+Mary patted the flushed cheek.  "Barry is a fortunate boy," she said.
+Then, with hesitation, "Leila, when you knew, did it make a difference?"
+
+"Difference?"
+
+"In your feeling for Barry?"
+
+And now the child eyes were woman eyes.  "Yes," she said, "it made a
+difference.  But the difference was this--that I loved him more.  I
+don't know whether I can explain it so that you will understand, Mary.
+But then you aren't like me.  You've always been so wonderful, like
+Barry.  But you see I've never been wonderful.  I've always been just a
+little silly thing, pretty enough for people to like, and childish
+enough for everybody to pet, and because I was pretty and little and
+childish, nobody seemed to think that I could be anything else.  And
+for a long time I didn't dream that Barry was in love with me.  I just
+knew that I--cared.  But it was the kind of caring that didn't expect
+much in return.  And when Barry said that I was the only woman in the
+world for him--I had the feeling that it was a pleasant dream, and
+that--that some day I'd wake up and find that he had made a mistake and
+that he should have chosen a princess instead of just a little
+goosie-girl.  But when I knew that Barry had to fight, everything
+changed.  I knew that I could really help.  More than the princess,
+perhaps, because you see she might not have cared to bother--and she
+might not have loved him enough to--overlook."
+
+"You blessed child," Mary said with a catch in her voice, "you mustn't
+be so humble--it's enough to spoil any man."
+
+"Not Barry," Leila said; "he loves me because I am so loving."
+
+Oh, wisdom of the little heart.  There might be men who could love for
+the sake of conquest; there might be men who could meet coldness with
+ardor, and affection with indifference.  Barry was not one of these.
+The sacred fire which burned in the heart of his sweet mistress had
+lighted the flame in his own.  It was Leila's love as well as Leila
+that he wanted.  And she knew and treasured the knowledge.
+
+It was when Mary left that she said, with forced lightness, "You'll be
+going soon, and what a summer you will have together."
+
+It was on Leila's lips to cry, "But I want our life together to begin
+now.  What's one summer in a whole life of love?"
+
+But she did not voice her cry.  She kissed Mary and smiled wistfully,
+and went back into the dusky room to dream of Barry--Barry her young
+husband, with whom she had walked in her little yellow gown over the
+hills and far away.
+
+And while she dreamed, Barry, in Jerry Tuckerman's big blue car, was
+flying over other hills, and farther away from Leila than he had ever
+been in his life.
+
+It was as Mary had feared.  Barry's strength in his first resistance of
+Jerry's importunities had made him over-confident, so that when, at the
+end of the month, Jerry had returned and had pressed his claim, Barry
+had consented to lunch with him.
+
+At luncheon they met Jerry's crowd and Barry drank just one glass of
+golden sparkling stuff.
+
+But the one glass was enough to fire his blood--enough to change the
+aspect of the world--enough to make him reckless, boisterous--enough to
+make him consent to join at once Jerry's party in a motor trip to
+Scotland.
+
+In that moment the world of work receded, the world of which Leila was
+the center receded--the life which had to do with lodgings and
+primroses and Sheffield trays was faint and blurred to his mental
+vision.  But this life, which had to do with laughter and care-free
+joyousness and forgetfulness, this was the life for a man who was a man.
+
+Jerry was saying, "There will be the three of us and the chauffeur--and
+we will take things in hampers and things in boxes, and things in
+bottles."
+
+Barry laughed.  It was not a loud laugh, just a light boyish chuckle,
+and as he rose and stood with his hand resting on the table, many eyes
+were turned upon him.  He was a handsome young American, his beautiful
+blond head held high.  "You mustn't expect," he said, still with that
+light laughter, "that I am going to bring any bottles.  Only thing I've
+got is a tea-caddy.  Honest--a tea-caddy, and a Sheffield tray."
+
+Then some memory assailing him, he faltered, "And a little foolish
+footstool."
+
+"Sit down," Jerry said.  There was something strangely appealing in
+that gay young figure with the shining eyes.  In spite of himself,
+Jerry felt uncomfortable.  "Sit down," he said.
+
+So Barry sat down, and laughed at nothing, and talked about nothing,
+and found it all very enchanting.
+
+He packed his bag and left a note for Gordon and when he piled finally
+with the others into Jerry's car, he was ready to shout with them that
+it was a long lane which had no turning, and that work was a bore and
+would always be.
+
+And so the ride which Leila had planned for herself and her young
+husband became a wild ride, in which these young knights of the road
+pursued fantastic adventures, with memories blank, and with consciences
+soothed.
+
+For days they rode, stopping at various inns along the way, startling
+the staid folk of the villages by their laughter late into the night;
+making boon companions in an hour, and leaving them with tears, to
+forget them at the first turn of the corner.
+
+Written as old romance, such things seem of the golden age; looked upon
+in the light of Barry's future and of Leila's, they were tragedy
+unspeakable.
+
+And now the car went up and up, to come down again to some stretch of
+sand, with the mountains looming black against one horizon, the sea a
+band of sapphire against another.
+
+And so, fate drawing them nearer and nearer, they came at last to the
+little town which Leila had described in her letter.
+
+Going in, some one spoke the name, and Barry had a stab of memory.  Who
+had talked of narrow streets, across which people gossiped--and shook
+hands?--who had spoken of having tea in that little shop?
+
+He asked the question of his companions, "Who called this a story-book
+town?"
+
+They laughed at him.  "You dreamed it."
+
+Steadily his mind began to work.  He fumbled in his pocket, and found
+Leila's letter.
+
+Searching through it, he discovered the name of the little place.  "I
+didn't dream it," he announced triumphantly; "my wife told me."
+
+"Wake up," Jerry said, "and thank the gods that you are single."
+
+But Barry stood swaying.  "My little wife told me--_Leila_!"
+
+With a sudden cry, he lurched forward.  His arm struck the arm of the
+driver beside him.  The car gave a sudden turn.  The streets were
+narrow--so narrow that one might almost shake hands across them!
+
+And there was a crash!
+
+Jerry was not hurt, nor the other adventurers.  The chauffeur was
+stunned.  But Barry was crumpled up against the stone steps of one of
+the funny little houses, and lay there with Leila's letter all red
+under him.
+
+
+It was Porter and Mary who told Leila.  The General had begged them to
+do it.  "I can't," he had said, pitifully.  "I've faced guns, but I
+can't face the hurt in my darling's eyes."
+
+So Mary's arms were around her when she whispered to the child-wife
+that Barry was--dead.
+
+Porter had faltered first something about an accident--that the doctors
+were--afraid.
+
+Leila, shaking, had looked from one to the other.  "I must go to him,"
+she had cried.  "You see, I am his wife.  I have a right to go."
+
+"_His wife_?"  Of all things they had not expected this.
+
+"Yes, we have been married a year--we ran away."
+
+"When, dear?"
+
+"Last March--to Rockville--and--and we were going to tell everybody the
+next day--and then Barry lost his place--and we couldn't."
+
+Oh, poor little widow, poor little child!  Mary drew her close.
+"Leila, Leila," she whispered, "dear little sister, dear little girl,
+we must love and comfort each other."
+
+And then Leila knew.
+
+But they did not tell her how it had happened.  The details of that
+last ride the woman who loved him need never know.  Barry was to be her
+hero always.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXIV
+
+_In Which Roger Comes Once More to the Tower Rooms; and in Which a Duel
+is Fought in Modern Fashion._
+
+
+It was Cousin Patty who had suggested sending for Roger.  "He can look
+after me, Mary.  If you won't let me go home, I don't want you to have
+the thought of me to burden you."
+
+"You couldn't be a burden.  And I don't know what Aunt Isabelle and I
+should have done without you."
+
+She began to cry weakly, and Cousin Patty, comforting her, said in her
+heart, "There is no one but Roger who can say the right things to her."
+
+As yet no one had said the right things.  It seemed to Mary that she
+carried a wound too deep for healing.  Gordon had softened the truth as
+much as possible, but he could not hide it from her.  She knew that
+Barry, her boy Barry, had gone out of the world defeated.
+
+It was Roger who helped her.
+
+He came first upon her as she sat alone in the garden by the fountain.
+It was a sultry spring day, and heavy clouds hung low on the horizon.
+Thin and frail in her black frock, she rose to meet him, the ghost of
+the girl who had once bloomed like a flower in her scarlet wrap.
+
+Roger took her hands in his.
+
+"You poor little child," he said; "you poor little child."
+
+She did not cry.  She simply looked up at him, frozen-white.  "Oh, it
+wasn't fair for him to go--that way.  He tried so hard.  He tried so
+hard."
+
+"I know.  And it was a great fight he put up, you must remember that."
+
+"But to fail--at the last."
+
+"You mustn't think of that.  Somehow I can see Barry still fighting,
+and winning.  One of a glorious company."
+
+"A glorious company--Barry?"
+
+"Yes.  Why not?  We are judged by the fight we make, not by our
+victory."
+
+She drew a long breath.  "Everybody else has been sorry.   Nobody else
+could seem to understand."
+
+"Perhaps I understand," he said, "because I know what it is to
+fight--and fail."
+
+"But you are winning now."  The color swept into her pale cheeks.
+"Cousin Patty told me."
+
+"Yes.  You showed me the way--I have tried to follow it."
+
+"Oh, how ignorant I was," she cried, tempestuously, "when I talked to
+you of life.  I thought I knew everything."
+
+"You knew enough to help me.  If I can help you a little now it will be
+only a fair exchange."
+
+It helped her merely to have him there.  "You spoke of Barry's still
+fighting and winning.  Do you think that one goes on fighting?"
+
+"Why not?  It would seem only just that he should conquer.  There are
+men who are not tempted, whose goodness is negative.  Character is made
+by resistance against evil, not by lack of knowledge of it.  And the
+judgments of men are not those which count in the final verdict."
+
+He said more than this, breaking the bonds of her despair.  Others had
+pitied Barry.  Roger defended him.  She began to think of her brother,
+not as her imagination had pictured him, flung into utter darkness, but
+with his head up--his beautiful fair head, a shining sword in his hand,
+fighting against the powers of evil--stumbling, falling, rising again.
+
+He saw her relax as she listened, and his love for her taught him what
+to say.
+
+And as he talked, her eyes noted the change in him.
+
+This was not the Roger Poole of the Tower Rooms.  This was a Roger
+Poole who had found himself.  She could see it in his manner--she could
+hear it in his voice, it shone from his eyes.  Here was a man who
+feared nothing, not even the whispers that had once had power to hurt.
+
+The clouds were sweeping toward them, hiding the blue; the wind whirled
+the dead leaves from the paths, and stirred the budding branches of the
+hundred-leaved bush--touched with its first hint of tender green.  The
+mist from the fountain was like a veil which hid the mocking face of
+the bronze boy.
+
+But Mary and Roger had no eyes for these warnings; each was famished
+for the other, and this meeting gave to Mary, at least, a sense of
+renewed life.
+
+She spoke of her future.  "Constance and Gordon want me to come to
+them.  But I hate to give up my work.  I don't want to be discontented.
+Yet I dread the loneliness here.  Did you ever think I should be such a
+coward?"
+
+"You are not a coward--you are a woman--wanting the things that belong
+to you."
+
+She sat very still.  "I wonder--what are the things which belong to a
+woman?"
+
+"Love--a home--happiness."
+
+"And you think I want these things?"
+
+"I know it."
+
+"How do you know?"
+
+"Because you have tried work--and it has failed.  You have tried
+independence--and it has failed.  You have tried freedom, and have
+found it bondage."
+
+He was once more in the grip of the dream which he had dreamed as he
+had sat with Mary's letter in his hand on Cousin Patty's porch.  If she
+would come to him there would be no more loneliness.  His love should
+fill her life, and there would be, too, the love of his people.  She
+should win hearts while he won souls.  If only she would care enough to
+come.
+
+It was the fear that she might not care which suddenly gripped him.
+Surely this was not the moment to press his demands upon her--when
+sorrow lay so heavily on her heart.
+
+So blind, and cruel in his blindness, he held back the words which rose
+to his lips.
+
+"Some day life will bring the things which belong to you," he said at
+last.  "I pray God that it may bring them to you some day."
+
+A line of Browning's came into her mind, and rang like a knell--"Some
+day, meaning no day."
+
+She shivered and rose.  "We must go in; there's rain in those clouds,
+and wind."
+
+He rose also and stood looking down at her.  Her eyes came up to his,
+her clear eyes, shadowed now by pain.  What he might have said to her
+in another moment would have saved both of them much weariness and
+heartache.  But he was not to say it, for the storm was upon them
+driving them before it, slamming doors, banging shutters in the big
+house as they came to it--a miniature cyclone, in its swift descent.
+
+And as if he had ridden in on the wings of the storm came Porter
+Bigelow, his red mane blown like a flame back from his face, his long
+coat flapping.
+
+He stopped short at the sight of Roger.
+
+"Hello, Poole," he said; "when did you arrive?"
+
+"This morning."
+
+They shook hands, but there was no sign of a welcome in Porter's face.
+
+"Pretty stiff storm," he remarked, as the three of them stood by the
+drawing-room window, looking out.
+
+The rain came in shining sheets--the lightning blazed--the thunder
+boomed.
+
+"It is the first thunder-storm of the season," Mary said.  "It will
+wake up the world."
+
+"In the South," Roger said, "the world is awake.  You should see our
+gardens."
+
+"I wish I could; Cousin Patty asked me to come."
+
+"Will you?" eagerly.
+
+"There's my work."
+
+"Take a holiday, and let me show you the pines."
+
+Porter broke in impatiently, almost insolently.
+
+"Mary needs companionship, not pines.  I think she should go to
+Constance.  Leila and the General will go over as they planned in May,
+and the Jeliffes----"
+
+"There's more than a month before May--which she could spend with us."
+
+Porter stared.  This was a new Roger, an insistent, demanding Roger.
+He spoke coldly.  "Constance wants Mary at once.  I don't think we
+should say anything to dissuade her.  Aunt Isabelle and I can take her
+over."
+
+And now Mary's head went up.
+
+"I haven't decided, Porter."  She was fighting for freedom.
+
+"But Constance needs you, Mary--and you need her."
+
+"Oh, no," Mary said, brokenly, "Constance doesn't need me.  She has
+Gordon and the baby.  Nobody needs me--now."
+
+Roger saw the quick blood flame in Porter's face.  He felt it flame in
+his own.  And just for one fleeting moment, over the bowed head of the
+girl, the challenging eyes of the two men met.
+
+Aunt Frances, who came over with Grace in the afternoon, went home in a
+high state of indignation.
+
+"Why Patty Carew and Roger Poole should take possession of Mary in that
+fashion," she said to her daughter at dinner, "is beyond me.  They
+don't belong there, and it would have been in better taste to leave at
+such a time."
+
+"Mary begged Cousin Patty to stay," Grace said, "and as for Roger
+Poole, he has simply made Mary over.  She has been like a stone image
+until to-day."
+
+"I don't see any difference," Aunt Frances said.  "What do you mean,
+Grace?"
+
+"Oh, her eyes and the color in her cheeks, and the way she does her
+hair."
+
+"The way she does her hair?"  Aunt Frances laid down her fork and
+stared.
+
+"Yes.  Since the awful news came, Mary has seemed to lose interest in
+everything.  She adored Barry, and she's never going to get over
+it--not entirely.  I miss the old Mary."  Grace stopped to steady her
+voice.  "But when I went up with her to her room to talk to her while
+she dressed for dinner, she put up her hair in that pretty boyish way
+that she used to wear it, and it was all for Roger Poole."
+
+"Why not for Porter?"
+
+"Because she hasn't cared how she looked, and Porter has been there
+every day.  He has been there too often."
+
+"Do you think Roger will try to get her to marry him?"
+
+"Who knows?  He's dead in love with her.  But he looks upon her as too
+rare for the life he leads.  That's the trouble with men.  They are
+afraid they can't make the right woman happy, so they ask the wrong
+one.  Now if we women could do the proposing----"
+
+"Grace!"
+
+"Don't look at me in that shocked way, mother.  I am just voicing what
+every woman knows--that the men who ask her aren't the ones she would
+have picked out if she had had the choice.  And Mary will wait and
+weary, and Roger will worship and hang back, and in the meantime Porter
+will demand and demand and demand--and in the end he'll probably get
+what he wants."
+
+Aunt Frances beamed.  "I hope so."
+
+"But Mary will be miserable."
+
+"Then she'll be very silly."
+
+Grace sighed.  "No woman is silly who asks for the best.  Mother, I'd
+love to marry a man with a mission--I'd like to go to the South Sea
+Islands and teach the natives, or to Darkest Africa--or to China, or
+India, anywhere away from a life in which there's nothing but bridge,
+and shopping, and deadly dullness."
+
+She was in earnest now, and her mother saw it.
+
+"I don't see how you can say such things," she quavered.  "I don't see
+how you can talk of going to such impossible places--away from me."
+
+Grace cut short the plaintive wail.
+
+"Of course I have no idea of going," she said, "but such a life would
+furnish its own adventures; I wouldn't have to manufacture them."
+
+It was with the wish to make life something more than it was that Grace
+asked Roger the next day, "Is there any work here in town like yours
+for the boy--you see Mary has told me about him."
+
+He smiled.  "Everywhere there are boys and girls, unawakened--if only
+people would look for them; and with your knowledge of languages you
+could do great things with the little foreigners--turn a bunch of them
+into good citizens, for example."
+
+"How?"
+
+"Reach them first through pictures and music--then through their
+patriotism.  Don't let them learn politics and plunder on the streets;
+let them find their place in this land from you, and let them hear from
+you of the God of our fathers."
+
+Grace felt his magnetism.  "I wish you could go through the streets of
+New York saying such things."
+
+He shook his head.  "I shall not come to the city.  My place is found,
+and I shall stay there; but I have faith to believe that there will yet
+be a Voice to speak, to which the world shall listen."
+
+"Soon?"
+
+"Everything points to an awakening.  People are beginning to say, 'Tell
+us,' where a few years ago they said, 'There is nothing to tell.'"
+
+"I see--it will be wonderful when it comes--I'm going to try to do my
+little bit, and be ready, and when Mary comes back, she shall help me."
+
+His eyes went to where Mary sat between Porter and Aunt Frances.
+
+"She may never come back."
+
+"She must be made to come."
+
+"Who could make her?"
+
+"The man she loves."
+
+She flashed a sparkling glance at him, and rose.
+
+"Come, mother," she said, "it is time to go."  Then, as she gave Roger
+her hand, she smiled.  "Faint heart," she murmured, "don't you know
+that a man like you, if he tries, can conquer the--world?"
+
+She left Roger with his pulses beating madly.  What did she mean?  Did
+she think that--Mary----?  He went up to the Tower Rooms to dress for
+dinner, with his mind in a whirl.  The windows were open and the warm
+air blew in.  Looking out, he could see in the distance the shining
+river--like a silver ribbon, and the white shaft of the Monument, which
+seemed to touch the sky.  But he saw more than that; he saw his future
+and Mary's; again he dreamed his dreams.
+
+If he had hoped for a moment alone that night with the lady of his
+heart, he was doomed to disappointment, for Leila and her father came
+to dinner.  Leila was very still and sweet in her widow's black, the
+General brooding over her.  And again Roger had the sense that in this
+house of sorrow there was no place for love-making.  For the joy that
+might be his--he must wait; even though he wearied in the waiting.
+
+And it was while he waited that he lunched one day with Porter Bigelow.
+The invitation had surprised him, and he had felt vaguely troubled and
+oppressed by the thought that back of it might be some motive as yet
+unrevealed.  But there had been nothing to do but accept, and at one
+o'clock he was at the University Club.
+
+For a time they spoke of indifferent things, then Porter said, bluntly,
+"I am not going to beat about the bush, Poole.  I've asked you here to
+talk about Mary Ballard."
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"You're in love with her?"
+
+"Yes--but I question your right to play inquisitor."
+
+"I haven't any right, except my interest in Mary.  But I claim that my
+interest justifies the inquisition."
+
+"Perhaps."
+
+"You want to marry her?"
+
+Roger shifted his position, and leaned forward, meeting Porter's stormy
+eyes squarely.  "Again I question your right, Bigelow."
+
+[Illustration: "Again I question your right."]
+
+"It isn't a question of right now, Poole, and you know it.  You're in
+love with her, I'm in love with her.  We both want her.  In days past
+men settled such things with swords or pistols.  You and I are
+civilized and modern; but it's got to be settled just the same."
+
+"Miss Ballard will have to settle it--not you or I."
+
+"She can't settle it.  Mary is a dreamer.  You capture her with your
+imagination--with your talk of your work--and your people and the
+little gardens, and all that.  And she sees it as you want her to see
+it, not as it really is.  But I know the deadly dullness, the
+awfulness.  Why, man, I spent a winter down there, at one of the
+resorts and now and then we rode through the country.  It was a desert,
+I tell you, Poole, a desert; it is no place for a woman."
+
+"You saw nothing but the charred pines and the sand.  I could show you
+other things."
+
+"What, for example?"
+
+"I could show you an awakened people.  I could show you a community
+throwing off the shackles of idleness and ignorance.  I could show you
+men once tied to old traditions, meeting with eagerness the new ideals.
+There is nothing in the world more wonderful than such an awakening,
+Bigelow.  But one must have the Vision to grasp it.  And faith to
+believe it.  It is the dreamers, thank God, who see beyond to-day into
+to-morrow.  I haven't wealth or position to offer Mary, but I can offer
+her a world which needs her.  And if I know her, as I think I do, she
+will care more for my world than for yours."
+
+He did not raise his voice, but Porter felt the force of his restrained
+eloquence, as he knew Mary would feel it if it were applied to her.
+
+And now he shot his poisoned dart.
+
+"At first, perhaps.  But when it came to building a home, there'd be
+always the stigma of your past, and she's a proud little thing, Poole."
+
+Roger winced.  "My past is buried.  It is my future of which we must
+speak."
+
+"You can't bury a past.  You haven't even a pulpit to preach from."
+
+Roger pushed back his chair.  "I am tempted to wish," his voice was
+grim, "that we were not quite so civilized, not quite so modern.
+Pistols or swords would seem an easier way than this."
+
+"I'm fighting for Mary.  You've got to let go.  None of her friends
+want it--Gordon would never consent."
+
+It seemed to Roger that all the whispers which had assailed him in the
+days of long ago were rushing back upon him in a roaring wave of sound.
+
+He rose, white and shaken.  "Do you call it victory when one man stabs
+another through the heart?  Well, if this is your victory, Bigelow--you
+are welcome to it."
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXV
+
+_In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life; and in Which She Finds
+Happiness on the High Seas._
+
+
+Contrary Mary was Contrary Mary no longer.  Since Roger had gone,
+taking Cousin Patty with him--gone without the word to her for which
+she had waited, she had submitted to Gordon's plans for her, and to
+Aunt Frances' and Porter's execution of them.
+
+Only to Grace did she show any signs of her old rebellion.
+
+"Did you ever think that I should be beaten, Grace?" she said,
+pitifully.  "Is that the way with all women?  Do we reach out for so
+much, and then take what we can get?"
+
+Grace pondered.  "Things tie us down, but we don't have to stay
+tied--and I am beginning to see a way out for myself, Mary."
+
+She told of her talk with Roger and of her own strenuous desire to
+help; but she did not tell what she had said to him at the last.  There
+was something here which she could not understand.  Mary persistently
+refused to talk about him.  Even now she shifted the topic.
+
+"I don't want to strive," she said, "not even for the sake of others.
+I want to rest for a thousand years--and sleep for the next thousand."
+
+And this from Mary, buoyant, vivid Mary, with her almost boyish
+strength and energy.
+
+The big house was to be closed.  Aunt Isabelle would go with Mary.
+Susan Jenks and Pittiwitz would be domiciled in the kitchen wing, with
+a friend of Susan's to keep them company.
+
+Mary, wandering on the last day through the Tower Rooms, thought of the
+night when Roger Poole had first come to them.  And now he would never
+come again.
+
+She had not been able to understand his abrupt departure.  Yet there
+had been nothing to resent--he had been infinitely kind, sympathetic,
+strong, helpful.  If she missed something from his manner which had
+been there on the day of his arrival, she told herself that perhaps it
+had not been there, that her own joy in seeing him had made her imagine
+a like joy in his attitude toward her.
+
+Cousin Patty had cried over her, kissed her, and protested that she
+could not bear to go.
+
+"But Roger thinks it is best, my dear.  He is needed at home."
+
+It seemed plausible that he might be needed, yet in the back of Mary's
+mind was a doubt.  What had sent him away?  She was haunted by the
+feeling that some sinister influence had separated them.
+
+A pitiful little figure in black, she made the tour of the empty rooms
+with Pittiwitz mewing plaintively at her heels.  The little cat, with
+the instinct of her kind, felt the atmosphere of change.  Old rugs on
+which she had sprawled were rolled up and reeking with moth balls.  The
+little white bed, on which she had napped unlawfully, was stripped to
+the mattress.  The cushions on which she had curled were packed
+away--the fire was out--the hearth desolate.
+
+Susan Jenks, coming up, found Mary with the little cat in her lap.
+
+"Oh, honey child, don't cry like that."
+
+"Oh, Susan, Susan, it will never be the same again, never the same."
+
+And now once more in the garden, the roses bloomed on the
+hundred-leaved bush, once more the fountain sang, and the little bronze
+boy laughed through a veil of mist--but there were no gay voices in the
+garden, no lovers on the stone seat.  Susan Jenks kept the paths trim
+and watered the flowers, and Pittiwitz chased butterflies or stretched
+herself in the sun, lazily content, forgetting, gradually, those who
+had for a time made up her world.
+
+But Mary, on the high seas, could not forget what she had left behind.
+It was not Susan Jenks, it was not Pittiwitz, it was not the garden
+which called her back, although these had their part in her regrets--it
+was the old life, the life which had belonged to her childhood and her
+girlhood the life which had been lived with her mother and father and
+Constance--and Barry.
+
+As she lay listless in her deck chair, she could see nothing in her
+future which would match the happiness of the past.  The days lived in
+the old house had never been days of great prosperity; her father had,
+indeed, often been weighed down with care--there had been times of
+heavy anxieties--but, there had been between them all the bond of deep
+affection, of mutual dependence.
+
+In Gordon's home there would be splendors far beyond any she had known,
+there would be ease and luxury, and these would be shared with her
+freely and ungrudgingly, yet to a nature like Mary Ballard's such
+things meant little.  The real things in life to her were love and
+achievement; all else seemed stale and unprofitable.
+
+Of course there would be Constance and the baby.  On the hope of seeing
+them she lived.  Yet in a sense Gordon and the baby stood between
+herself and Constance--they absorbed her sister, satisfied her, so that
+Mary's love was only one drop added to a full cup.
+
+It was while she pondered over her future that Mary was moved to write
+to Roger Poole.  The mere putting of her thoughts on paper would ease
+her loneliness.  She would say what she felt, frankly, freely, and when
+the little letters were finished, if her mood changed she need not send
+them.
+
+So she began to scribble, setting down each day the thoughts which
+clamored for expression.
+
+Porter complained that now she was always writing.
+
+"I'd rather write than talk," Mary said, wearily; and at last he let
+the matter drop.
+
+
+_In Mid-Sea._
+
+DEAR FRIEND O' MINE:
+
+You asked me to write, and you will think that I have more than kept my
+promise when you get this journal of our days at sea.  But it has
+seemed to me that you might enjoy it all, just as if you were with us,
+instead of down among your sand-hills, with your sad children (are they
+really sad now?) and Cousin Patty's wedding cakes.
+
+There's quite a party of us.  Leila and her father and the Jeliffes and
+Colin kept to their original plan of coming in May, and we decided it
+would be best to cross at the same time, so there's Aunt Frances and
+Grace and Aunt Isabelle, and Porter--and me--ten of us.  If you and
+Cousin Patty were here, you'd round out a dozen.  I wish you were here.
+How Cousin Patty would enjoy it--with her lovely enthusiasms, and her
+interest in everything.  Do give her much love.  I shall write to her
+when I reach London, for I know she will be traveling with us in
+spirit; she said she was going to live in England by proxy this summer,
+and I shall help her all I can by sending pictures, and you must tell
+her the books to read.
+
+To think that I am on my way to the London of your Dick Whittington!  I
+call him yours because you made me really see him for the first time.
+
+"_There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone._"
+
+And I am to hear all the bells, and to see the things I have always
+longed to see!  Yet--and I haven't told this to any one but you, Roger
+Poole, the thought doesn't bring one little bit of gladness--it isn't
+London that I want, or England.  I want my garden and my old big house,
+and things as they used to be.
+
+But I am sailing fast away from it--the old life into the new!
+
+So far we have had fair weather.  It is always best to speak of the
+weather first, isn't it?--so that we can have our minds free for other
+things.  It hasn't been at all rough; even Leila, who isn't a good
+sailor, has been able to stay on deck and people are so much interested
+in her.  She seems such a child for her widow's black.  Oh, what
+children they were, my boy Barry and his little wife, and yet they were
+man and woman, too.  Leila has been letting me see some of his letters;
+he showed her a side which he never revealed to me, but I am not
+jealous.  I am only glad that, for her, my boy Barry became a man.
+
+But I am going to try to keep the sadness out of my scribbles to you,
+only now and then it will creep in, and you must forgive it, because
+you see it isn't easy to think that we are all here who loved him, and
+he, who loved so much to be with us, is somewhere--oh, where is he,
+Roger Poole, in that vast infinity which stretches out and out, beyond
+the sea, beyond the sky, into eternity?
+
+All day I have been lying in my deck chair, and have let the world go
+by.  It is clear and cool, and the sea rises up like a wall of
+sapphire.  Last night we seemed to plough through a field of gold.  The
+world is really a lovely place, the big outside world, but it isn't the
+outside world which makes our happiness, it is the world within us, and
+when the heart is tired----
+
+But now I must talk of some one else besides my self.
+
+Shall I tell you of Delilah?  She attracts much attention, with her
+gracious manner and her wonderful clothes.  All the people are crazy
+about her.  They think she is English, and a duchess at least.  Colin
+is as pleased as Punch at the success he has made of her, and he just
+stands aside and watches her, and flickers his pale lashes and smiles.
+Last night she danced some of the new dances, and her tango is as
+stately as a minuet.  She and Porter danced together--and everybody
+stopped to look at them.  The gossip is going the rounds that they are
+engaged.  Oh, I wish they were--I wish they were!  It would be good for
+him to meet his match.  Delilah could hold her own; she wouldn't let
+him insist and manage until she was positively mesmerized, as I am.
+Delilah has such a queenly way of ruling her world.  All the men on
+board trail after her.  But she makes most of them worship from afar.
+As for the women, she picks the best, instinctively, and the ice which
+seems congealed around the heart of the average Britisher melts before
+her charm, so that already she is playing bridge with the proper
+people, and having tea with the inner circle.  Even with these she
+seems to assume an air of remoteness, which seems to set her apart--and
+it is this air, Grace says, which conquers.
+
+When people aren't coupling Porter's name with Delilah's, they are
+coupling it with Grace's.  You should see our "red-headed woodpeckers,"
+as poor Barry used to call them.  When they promenade, Grace wears a
+bit of a black hat that shows all of her glorious hair, and Porter's
+cap can't hide his crown of glory.  At first people thought they were
+brother and sister, but since it is known that they aren't I can see
+that everybody is puzzled.
+
+It is all like a play passing in front of me.  There are charming
+English people--charming Americans and some uncharming ones.  Oh, why
+don't we, who began in such simplicity, try to remain a simple people?
+It just seems to me sometimes as if everybody on board is trying to
+show off.  The rich ones are trying to display their money, and the
+intellectual ones their brains.  Is there any real difference between
+the new-rich and the new-cultured, Roger Poole?  One tells about her
+three motor cars, and the other tells about her three degrees.  It is
+all tiresome.  The world is a place to have things and to know things,
+but if the having them and knowing them makes them so important that
+you have to talk about them all the time there's something wrong.
+
+That's the charm of Grace.  She has money and position--and I've told
+you how she simply carried off all the honors at college; she paints
+wonderfully, and her opinions are all worth listening to.  But she
+doesn't throw her knowledge at you.  She is interested in people, and
+puts books where they belong.  She is really the only one whom I
+welcome without any misgivings, except darling Aunt Isabelle.  The
+others when they come to talk to me, are either too sad or too
+energetic.
+
+Doesn't all that sound as if I were a selfish little pig?  Well, some
+day I shall enjoy them all--but now--my heart is crying--and Leila,
+with her little white face, hurts.  Mrs. Barry Ballard!  Shall I ever
+get used to hearing her called that?  It seems to set her apart from
+little Leila Dick, so that when I hear people speak to her, I am always
+startled and surprised.
+
+And now--what are you doing?  Are you still planting little gardens,
+and talking to your boy--talking to your sad people?  Cousin Patty has
+told me of your letter to your bishop, who was so kind during
+your--trouble--and of his answer--and of your hope that some day you
+may have a little church in the sand-hills, and preach instead of teach.
+
+Surely that would make all of your dreams come true, all of _our_
+dreams, for I have dreamed too--that this might come.
+
+Sometimes as I lie here, I shut my eyes, and I seem to see you in that
+circle of young pines, and I pretend that I am listening; that you are
+saying things to me, as you say them to those poor people in the
+pines--and now and then I can make myself believe that you have really
+spoken, that your voice has reached across the miles.  And so I have
+your little sermons all to myself--out here at sea, with all the blue
+distance between us--but I listen, listen--just the same.
+
+
+_In the Fog._
+
+Out of the sunshine of yesterday came the heavy mists of to-day.  The
+sea slips under us in silver swells.  Everybody is wrapped to the chin,
+and Porter has just stopped to ask me if I want something hot sent up.
+I told him "no," and sent him on to Leila.  I like this still world,
+and the gray ghosts about the deck.  Delilah has just sailed by in a
+beautiful smoke-colored costume--with her inevitable knot of
+heliotrope--a phantom lady, like a lovely dream.
+
+Did I tell you that a very distinguished and much titled gentleman
+wants to marry Delilah, and that he is waiting now for her answer?
+Porter thinks she will say "yes."  But Leila and I don't.  We are sure
+that she will find her fate in Colin.  He dominates her; he dives
+beneath the surface and brings up the real Delilah, not the cool,
+calculating Delilah that we once knew, but the lovely, gracious lady
+that she now is.  It is as if he had put a new soul inside of the
+worldly shell that was once Delilah.  Yet there is never a sign between
+them of anything but good comradeship.  Grace says that Colin is
+following the fashionable policy of watchful waiting--but I'm not sure.
+I fancy that they will both wake up suddenly to what they feel, and
+then it will be quite wonderful to see them.
+
+Porter doesn't believe in the waking-up process.  He says that love is
+a growth.  That people must know each other for years and years, so
+that each can understand the faults and virtues of the other.  But to
+me it seems that love is a flame, illumining everything in a moment.
+
+Porter came while I was writing that--and made me walk with him up and
+down, up and down.  He was afraid I might get chilled.  Of course he
+means to be kind, but I don't like to have him tell me that I must
+"make an effort"--it gives me a sort of Mrs. Dombey feeling.  I don't
+wonder that she just curled up and died to get rid of the trouble of
+living.
+
+I knew while I walked with Porter that people were wondering who I
+was--in my long black coat, with my hair all blown about.  I fancy that
+they won't link my name, sentimentally, with the Knight of the Auburn
+Crest.  Beside Grace and Delilah I look like a little country girl.
+But I don't care--my thick coat is comfortable, and my little soft hat
+stays on my head, which is all one needs, isn't it?  But as I write
+this I wonder where the girl is who used to like pretty clothes.  Do
+you remember the dress I wore at Constance's wedding?  I was thinking
+to-day of it--and of Leila hippity-hopping up the stairs in her one
+pink slipper.  Oh, how far away those days seem--and how strong I
+felt--and how ready I was to face the world, and now I just want to
+crawl into a corner and watch other people live.
+
+Leila is much braver than I.  She takes a little walk every morning
+with her father, and another walk every afternoon with Porter--and she
+is always talking to lonesome people and sick people; and all the while
+she wears a little faint shining smile, like an angel's.  Yet I used to
+be quite scornful of Leila, even while I loved her.  I thought she was
+so sweetly and weakly feminine; yet she is steering her little ship
+through stormy waters, while I have lost my rudder and compass, and all
+the other things that a mariner needs in a time of storm.
+
+
+_Before the storm._
+
+The fog still hangs over us, and we seem to ride on the surface of a
+dead sea.  Last night there was no moon and to-day Aunt Frances has not
+appeared.  Even Delilah seems to feel depressed by the silence and the
+stillness--not a sound but the beat of the engines and the hoarse hoot
+of the horns.  This paper is damp as I write upon it, and blots the
+ink, but--I sha'n't rewrite it, because the blots will make you see me
+sitting here, with drops of moisture clinging to my coat and to my
+little hat, and making my hair curl up in a way that it never does in
+dry weather.
+
+I wonder, if you were here, if you would seem a ghost like all the
+others.  Nothing is real but my thoughts of the things that used to be.
+I can't believe that I am on my way to London, and that I am going to
+live with Constance, and go sightseeing with Aunt Frances and Grace,
+and give up my plans for the--Great Adventure.  Aunt Isabelle sat
+beside me this morning, and we talked about it.  She will stay with
+Aunt Frances and Grace, and we shall see each other every day.  I
+couldn't quite get along at all if it were not for Aunt Isabelle--she
+is such a mother-person, and she doesn't make me feel, as the rest of
+them do, that I must be brave and courageous.  She just pats my hand
+and says, "It's going to be all right, Mary dear--it is going to be all
+right," and presently I begin to feel that it is; she has such a
+fashion of ignoring the troublesome things of this world, and simply
+looking ahead to the next.  She told me once that heaven would mean to
+her, first of all, a place of beautiful sounds--and second it would
+mean freedom.  You see she has always been dominated by Aunt Frances,
+poor thing.
+
+Do you remember how I used to talk of freedom?  But now I'm to be a
+bird in a cage.  It will be a gilded cage, of course.  Even Grace says
+that Constance's home is charming--great lovely rooms and massive
+furniture; and when we begin to go again into society, I am to be
+introduced to lots of grand folk, and perhaps presented.
+
+And I am to forget that I ever worked in a grubby government
+office--indeed I am to forget that I ever worked at all.
+
+And I am to forget all of my dreams.  I am to change from the Mary
+Ballard who wanted to do things to the Mary Ballard who wants them done
+for her.  Perhaps when you see me again I shall be nice and clinging
+and as sweetly feminine as you used to want me to be--Roger Poole.
+
+The mists have cleared, and there's a cloud on the horizon--I can hear
+people saying that it means a storm.  Shall I be afraid?  I wonder.  Do
+you remember the storm that came that day in the garden and drove us
+in?  I wonder if we shall ever be together again in the dear old garden?
+
+
+_After the storm._
+
+Last night the storm waked us.  It was a dreadful storm, with the wind
+booming, and the sea all whipped up into a whirlpool.
+
+But I wasn't frightened, although everybody was awake, and there was a
+feeling that something might happen.  I asked Porter to take me on
+deck, but he said that no one was allowed, and so we just curled up on
+chairs and sofas and waited either for the storm to end or for the ship
+to sink.  If you've ever been in a storm at sea, you know the
+feeling--that the next minute may bring calm and safety, or terror and
+death.
+
+Porter had tucked a rug around me, and I lay there, looking at the
+others, wondering whether if an accident happened Delilah would face
+death as gracefully as she faces everything else.  Leila was very white
+and shivery and clung to her father; it is at such times that she seems
+such a child.
+
+Aunt Frances was fussy and blamed everybody from the captain down to
+Aunt Isabelle--as if they could control the warring elements.  Surely
+it is a case of the "ruling passion."
+
+But while I am writing these things, I am putting off, and putting off
+and putting off the story of what happened after the storm--not because
+I dread to tell it, but because I don't know quite how to tell it.  It
+involves such intimate things--yet it makes all things clear, it makes
+everything so beautifully clear, Roger Poole.
+
+It was after the wind died down a bit that I made Porter take me up on
+deck.  The moon was flying through the ragged clouds, and the water was
+a wild sweep of black and white.  It was all quite spectral and
+terrifying and I shivered.  And then Porter said; "Mary, we'd better go
+down."
+
+And I said, "It wasn't fear that made me shiver, Porter.  It was just
+the thought that living is worse than dying."
+
+He dropped my arm and looked down at me.
+
+"Mary," he said, "what's the matter with you?"
+
+"I don't know," I said.  "It is just that my courage is all gone--I
+can't face things."
+
+"Why not?"
+
+"I don't know--I've lost my grip, Porter."
+
+And then he asked a question.  "Is it because of Barry, Mary?"
+
+"Some of it."
+
+"And the rest?"
+
+"I can't tell you."
+
+We walked for a long time after that, and I was holding all the time
+tight to his arm--for it wasn't easy to walk with that sea on--when
+suddenly he laid his hand over mine.
+
+"Mary," he said, "I've got to tell you.  I can't keep it back and
+feel--honest.  I don't know whether you want Roger Poole in your
+life--I don't know whether you care.  But I want you to be happy.  And
+it was I who sent him away from you."
+
+And now, Roger Poole, what can I say?  What can _any_ woman say?  I
+only know this, that as I write this the sun shines over a blue sea,
+and that the world is--different.  There are still things in my heart
+which hurt--but there are things, too, which make it sing!
+
+MARY.
+
+
+When Mary Ballard came on deck on the morning after the storm,
+everybody stared.  Where was the girl of yesterday--the frail white
+girl who had moped so listlessly in her chair, scribbling on little
+bits of paper?  Here was a fair young beauty, with her head up, a clear
+light shining in her gray eyes--a faint flush on her cheeks.
+
+Colin Quale, meeting her, flickered his lashes and smiled: "Is this
+what the storm did to you?"
+
+"What?"
+
+"This and this."  He touched his cheeks and his eyes.  "To-day, if I
+painted you, I should have to put pink on my palette--yesterday I
+should have needed only black and white."
+
+Mary smiled back at him.  "Do you interpret things always through the
+medium of your brush?"
+
+"Why not?  Life is just that--a little color more or less, and it all
+depends on the hand of the artist."
+
+"What a wonderful palette He has!"  Her eyes swept the sea and the sky.
+"This morning the world is all gold and blue."
+
+"And yesterday it was gray."
+
+Mary flashed a glance at him.  His voice had changed.  Delilah was
+coming toward them.  "There's material I like to work with," he said,
+"there's something more than paint or canvas--living, breathing beauty."
+
+"He's saying things about you," Mary said, as Delilah joined them.
+
+Delilah, coloring faintly, cast down her eyes.  "I'm afraid of him,
+Mary," she said.
+
+Colin laughed.  "You're not afraid of any one."
+
+"Yes, I am.  You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion.
+You are always reading me like a book."
+
+"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely
+illustrations."
+
+They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious
+eyes.
+
+If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to
+Porter Bigelow it was no miracle.  Nothing could have more completely
+rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.
+
+Her attitude toward him was irreproachable.  She was kinder, indeed,
+than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims
+upon her.  She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for
+something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing
+could ever make up.
+
+So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and
+more and more with Leila--Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed
+him with such sweet and clinging dependence--Leila who hung upon his
+advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to
+help him.
+
+Thus they came in due time to London.  And when Leila and her father
+left for the German baths, Porter went with them.
+
+It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.
+
+"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you.  You never
+could, and you never would, and now you never will."
+
+
+Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby,
+days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual
+grief.  The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of
+them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed,
+winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making
+herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world
+seemed to revolve about her.
+
+And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across
+the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.
+
+It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and
+Gordon.  Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and
+laid it beside her plate.
+
+Gordon finished his breakfast, kissed his wife, and went away.
+Constance, looking over her mail, read bits of news to Mary.  Mary, in
+return, read bits of news to Constance.  But the blue envelope by her
+plate lay untouched, until, catching her sister's eye, she flushed.
+
+"Constance," she said, "it is from Roger Poole."
+
+"Oh, Mary, and was that why Porter went away?"
+
+"Yes."  It came almost defiantly.
+
+For a moment the young matron hesitated, then she held out her arms.
+"Dearest girl," she said, "we want you to be happy."
+
+Mary, with eyes shining, came straight to that loving embrace.
+
+"I am going to be happy," she said, almost breathlessly, "and perhaps
+my way of being happy won't be yours, Con, darling.  But what
+difference does it make, so long as we are both--happy?"
+
+The letter, read at last in the shelter of her own room, was not long.
+
+
+_Among the Pines._
+
+Even now I can't quite believe that your letter is true--I have read it
+and reread it--again and again, reading into it each time new meanings,
+new hope.  And to-night it lies on my desk, a precious document,
+tempting me to say things which perhaps I should not say--tempting me
+to plead for that which perhaps I should not ask.
+
+Dear woman--what have I to offer you?  Just a home down here among the
+sand-hills--a little church that will soon stand in a circle of young
+pines, a life of work in a little rectory near the little church--for
+your dreams and mine are to come true, and the little church will be
+built within a year.
+
+Yet, I have a garden.  A garden of souls.  Will you come into it?  And
+make it bloom, as you have made my life bloom?  All that I am you have
+made me.  When I sat in the Tower Rooms hopeless, you gave me hope.
+When I lost faith in myself, it shone in your eyes.  When I saw your
+brave young courage, my courage came back to me.  It was you who told
+me that I had a message to deliver.
+
+And I am delivering the message--and somehow I cannot feel that it is a
+little thing to offer, when I ask you to share in this, my work.
+
+Other men can offer you a castle--other men can give to you a life of
+ease.  I can bring to you a life in which we shall give ourselves to
+each other and to the world.  I can give you love that is equal to any
+man's.  I can give you a future which will make you forget the past.
+
+Not to every woman would I dare offer what I have to give---but you are
+different from other women.  From the night when you first met me
+frankly with your brave young head up and your eyes shining, I have
+known that you were different from the rest--a woman braver and
+stronger, a woman asking more of life than softness.
+
+And now, will you fight with me, shoulder to shoulder?  And win?
+
+Somehow I feel that you will say "Yes."  Is that the right attitude for
+a lover?  But surely I can see a little way into your heart.  Your
+letter let me see.
+
+If I seem over-confident, forgive me.  But I know what I want for
+myself.  I know what I want for you.  I am not the Roger Poole of the
+Tower Rooms, beaten and broken.  I am Roger Poole of the Garden,
+marching triumphantly in tune with the universe.
+
+As I write, I have a vision upon me of a little white house not far
+from the little white church in the circle of young pines--a house with
+orchards sweeping up all pink behind it in April, and with violets in
+the borders of the walk in January, and with roses from May until
+December.
+
+And I can see you in that little house.  I shall see you in it until
+you say something which will destroy that vision.  But you won't
+destroy it.  Surely some day you will hear the mocking-birds sing in
+the moonlight--as I am hearing them, alone, to-night.
+
+I need you, I want you, and I hope that it is not a selfish cry.  For
+your letter has told me that you, too, are wanting--what?  Is it Love,
+Mary dear, and Life?
+
+ROGER.
+
+
+
+
+CHAPTER XXVI
+
+_In Which a Strange Craft Anchors in a Sea of Emerald Light; and in
+Which Mocking-Birds Sing in the Moonlight._
+
+
+Sweeping through a country of white sand and of charred trees run hard
+clay highways.  When motor cars from the cities and health resorts
+began to invade the pines, it was found that the old wagon trails were
+inadequate; hence there followed experiments which resulted in
+intersecting orange-colored roads, throughout the desert-like expanse.
+
+It was on a day in April that over the road which led up toward the
+hills there sailed the snowy-white canopy of one of the strange
+land-craft of that region--a schooner-wagon drawn by two fat mules who
+walked at a leisurely but steady pace, seemingly without guidance from
+any hand.
+
+Yet that, beneath the hooded cover, there was a directing power, was
+demonstrated, as the mules turned suddenly from the hot road to a wagon
+path beneath the shelter of the pines.
+
+It was strewn thick with brown needles, and the sharp hoofs of the
+little animals made no sound.  Deeper and deeper they went into the
+wood, until the swinging craft and its clumsy steeds seemed to swim in
+a sea of emerald light.
+
+On and on breasting waves of golden gloom, where the sunlight sifted
+in, to anchor at last in a still space where the great trees sang
+overhead.
+
+Then from beneath the canopy emerged a man in khaki.
+
+He took off his hat, and stood for a moment looking up at the great
+trees, then he called softly, "Mary."
+
+She came to the back of the wagon and he lifted her down.
+
+"This is my cathedral," he said; "it is the place of the biggest pines."
+
+She leaned against him and looked up.  His arm was about her.  She wore
+a thin silk blouse and a white skirt.  Her soft fair hair was blown
+against his cheek.
+
+"Roger," she said, "was there ever such a honeymoon?"
+
+"Was there ever such a woman--such a wife?"
+
+After that they were silent.  There was no need for words.  But
+presently he spread a rug for her, and built their fire, and they had
+their lunch.  The mules ate comfortably in the shade, and rested
+throughout the long hot hours of the afternoon.
+
+Then once more the strange craft sailed on.  On and on over miles of
+orange roadway, passing now and then an orchard, flaunting the
+rose-color of its peach trees against the dun background of sand;
+passing again between drifts of dogwood, which shone like snow beneath
+the slanting rays of the sun--sailing on and on until the sun went
+down.  Then came the shadowy twilight, with the stars coming out in the
+warm dusk--then the moonlight--and the mocking-birds singing.
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONTRARY MARY***
+
+
+******* This file should be named 17938.txt or 17938.zip *******
+
+
+This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
+https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/7/9/3/17938
+
+
+
+Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions
+will be renamed.
+
+Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no
+one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation
+(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without
+permission and without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules,
+set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to
+copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to
+protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark.  Project
+Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you
+charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission.  If you
+do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the
+rules is very easy.  You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose
+such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and
+research.  They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do
+practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks.  Redistribution is
+subject to the trademark license, especially commercial
+redistribution.
+
+
+
+*** START: FULL LICENSE ***
+
+THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE
+PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK
+
+To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free
+distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
+(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at
+https://www.gutenberg.org/license).
+
+
+Section 1.  General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic works
+
+1.A.  By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
+and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
+(trademark/copyright) agreement.  If you do not agree to abide by all
+the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy
+all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession.
+If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the
+terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or
+entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.
+
+1.B.  "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark.  It may only be
+used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
+agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement.  There are a few
+things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works
+even without complying with the full terms of this agreement.  See
+paragraph 1.C below.  There are a lot of things you can do with Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement
+and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.  See paragraph 1.E below.
+
+1.C.  The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation"
+or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic works.  Nearly all the individual works in the
+collection are in the public domain in the United States.  If an
+individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are
+located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from
+copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative
+works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg
+are removed.  Of course, we hope that you will support the Project
+Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by
+freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of
+this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with
+the work.  You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by
+keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project
+Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others.
+
+1.D.  The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
+what you can do with this work.  Copyright laws in most countries are in
+a constant state of change.  If you are outside the United States, check
+the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement
+before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or
+creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project
+Gutenberg-tm work.  The Foundation makes no representations concerning
+the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United
+States.
+
+1.E.  Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:
+
+1.E.1.  The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate
+access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently
+whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the
+phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project
+Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed,
+copied or distributed:
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+1.E.2.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived
+from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is
+posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied
+and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees
+or charges.  If you are redistributing or providing access to a work
+with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the
+work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1
+through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the
+Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or
+1.E.9.
+
+1.E.3.  If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted
+with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
+must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional
+terms imposed by the copyright holder.  Additional terms will be linked
+to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the
+permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.
+
+1.E.4.  Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
+work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm.
+
+1.E.5.  Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
+electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
+prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
+active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm License.
+
+1.E.6.  You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
+compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any
+word processing or hypertext form.  However, if you provide access to or
+distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than
+"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version
+posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org),
+you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a
+copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon
+request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other
+form.  Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.
+
+1.E.7.  Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
+performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works
+unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.
+
+1.E.8.  You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
+access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided
+that
+
+- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
+     the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method
+     you already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  The fee is
+     owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he
+     has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the
+     Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.  Royalty payments
+     must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you
+     prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax
+     returns.  Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and
+     sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the
+     address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to
+     the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."
+
+- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
+     you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
+     does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm
+     License.  You must require such a user to return or
+     destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium
+     and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of
+     Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any
+     money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
+     electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days
+     of receipt of the work.
+
+- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
+     distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works.
+
+1.E.9.  If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm
+electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set
+forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from
+both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael
+Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark.  Contact the
+Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.
+
+1.F.
+
+1.F.1.  Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
+effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
+public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm
+collection.  Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain
+"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or
+corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual
+property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a
+computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by
+your equipment.
+
+1.F.2.  LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right
+of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
+Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
+Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
+liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
+fees.  YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
+LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
+PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3.  YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
+TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
+LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
+INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
+DAMAGE.
+
+1.F.3.  LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
+defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
+receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
+written explanation to the person you received the work from.  If you
+received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with
+your written explanation.  The person or entity that provided you with
+the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a
+refund.  If you received the work electronically, the person or entity
+providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to
+receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund.  If the second copy
+is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further
+opportunities to fix the problem.
+
+1.F.4.  Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
+in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO OTHER
+WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO
+WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.
+
+1.F.5.  Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
+warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages.
+If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the
+law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be
+interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by
+the applicable state law.  The invalidity or unenforceability of any
+provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.
+
+1.F.6.  INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
+trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
+providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance
+with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production,
+promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works,
+harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees,
+that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do
+or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm
+work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any
+Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause.
+
+
+Section  2.  Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of
+electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers
+including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers.  It exists
+because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from
+people in all walks of life.
+
+Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
+assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's
+goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will
+remain freely available for generations to come.  In 2001, the Project
+Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
+and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations.
+To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
+and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4
+and the Foundation web page at https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/pglaf.
+
+
+Section 3.  Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive
+Foundation
+
+The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit
+501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
+state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
+Revenue Service.  The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification
+number is 64-6221541.  Contributions to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent
+permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws.
+
+The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S.
+Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered
+throughout numerous locations.  Its business office is located at
+809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email
+business@pglaf.org.  Email contact links and up to date contact
+information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official
+page at https://www.gutenberg.org/about/contact
+
+For additional contact information:
+     Dr. Gregory B. Newby
+     Chief Executive and Director
+     gbnewby@pglaf.org
+
+Section 4.  Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
+Literary Archive Foundation
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide
+spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of
+increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
+freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest
+array of equipment including outdated equipment.  Many small donations
+($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
+status with the IRS.
+
+The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
+charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
+States.  Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
+considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
+with these requirements.  We do not solicit donations in locations
+where we have not received written confirmation of compliance.  To
+SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any
+particular state visit https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
+
+While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
+have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
+against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
+approach us with offers to donate.
+
+International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
+any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
+outside the United States.  U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.
+
+Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation
+methods and addresses.  Donations are accepted in a number of other
+ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations.
+To donate, please visit:
+https://www.gutenberg.org/fundraising/donate
+
+
+Section 5.  General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic
+works.
+
+Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm
+concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared
+with anyone.  For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project
+Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.
+
+Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed
+editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S.
+unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we do not necessarily
+keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.
+
+Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility:
+
+     https://www.gutenberg.org
+
+This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm,
+including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
+Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
+subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.
+
diff --git a/17938.zip b/17938.zip
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..373f956
--- /dev/null
+++ b/17938.zip
diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..6312041
--- /dev/null
+++ b/LICENSE.txt
@@ -0,0 +1,11 @@
+This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements,
+metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be
+in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES.
+
+Procedures for determining public domain status are described in
+the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org.
+
+No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in
+jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize
+this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright
+status under the laws that apply to them.
diff --git a/README.md b/README.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..a5f4ef6
--- /dev/null
+++ b/README.md
@@ -0,0 +1,2 @@
+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #17938 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/17938)