ppeal through and smiled at its naivete. Then he
looked across his office to his partner, William Brierly, a younger man
with pompadour hair and an habitual air of immense self-satisfaction.
Brierly was reading the same story in another newspaper. He, too, looked
up and smiled.

"You know this girl, don't you, Grove?" Brierly asked. "By George, she
must be interesting. A new kind of female maniac, eh?"

"You've met her," responded Evans. "She was at the Country Club during
trophy match last fall. Carries herself like a queen. I remember your
raving about her."

"Ah," Brierly's derisive smile faded. "That girl, eh? Say, I saw her make
the ninth hole in three. That girl! Say, look here, Grove," he struck the
open paper with his palm, "does she mean this stuff?"

Evans lighted a cigarette before replying. "She sure does," he stated
finally. "I was at the Randalls when she delivered her ultimatum and took
to the war path. Talk about a jolt! After she left us, you could hear the
shades of night falling. For ten minutes we sat there exhibiting all the
vivacity of a deaf and dumb man at a Quaker prayer-meeting."

Brierly laughed. "Oh, well," he said. "She'll do what all these
suffragettes do--run around in a circle, yell herself tired, then marry
some fellow and forget it."

He yawned. Evans turned to the huge safe and got out a heavy packet of
papers.

"What are you doing, Grove?" Brierly demanded lazily.

"Nothing," responded Evans curtly. "Just looking over some of our shady
leases."

"Hello!" said Brierly, getting on his feet. "Are you taking this thing
seriously?"

Evans turned with a folded paper in his hand.

"You bet your life I am," he replied. "I know this girl. There's a strain
of wild Irish in her and it's my opinion that she's going to raise merry
hell!"

The dreamer who had visited the Millville Button Works with the owner of
the mill lunched with his friend in the city that day. Quite casually,
among other items of interest, Mary Randall's adventure came up for
discussion.

"I don't know the girl," said the mill-owner, "but her announcement gives
me a fairly good mental picture of her."

"What's your picture?" inquired the journalist.

"A rag and a bone and a hank of hair, one of these raving suffragettes.
Since bomb-throwing and burning are not fashionable over here, she's
chosen this means of expending her surplus energy."

"My dear friend, you're entirely wrong!"

"What! You've seen her