orchards. The statistics which fell
so convincingly from Ware's lips were quoted, derided, defended,
denied. The hardest argument the objectors had to encounter was Ware
himself. The atmosphere of prosperity surrounding him, his air of
familiarity with luxury, could not be offset by logic. The program of
the Clematis Woman's Club was fairly swamped by the eagerness of the
members to question Mrs. Hornblower as to the possibilities of profit
in this form of investment. Persis, who had come to the meeting late,
went away early while the discussion was at its height and missed a
paper by Gladys Wells entitled, _No Knot at the End of the Thread_.

Persis Dale was not lacking in self-respect. But for twenty years her
self-respect had been identical with her loyalty. She could not fancy
the one arrayed against the other. She clung desperately to the hope
that Justin would explain. For half her lifetime she had found excuses
for his silence, and the habit was too strong to be smothered
overnight. But even her prejudiced tenderness recognized the
insufficiency of the grounds on which she had exonerated the lover of
her girlhood from blame. It was no longer possible to judge his faith
by her own, scorning all doubt of him as she would have scorned the
grossest of temptations. She could have borne the news of his death
without outward evidence of emotion, but this bewilderment and
uncertainty taxed her strength almost to the breaking point. Through
the days, with the help of her work, she kept herself so well in hand
as almost to believe that the victory was lasting. But as the dusk
settled down, the old questioning began. Would he come? Could he stay
away longer? He had been in town five days without seeing her, six
days, seven. Against her will and her judgment, she found herself
waiting, listening, hoping. Footsteps echoed outside, lagging feet,
reluctant to leave comfort behind, swift feet, hurrying to keep some
tryst with joy. She heard them pass and repass while her pulses leaped
with a hope she knew to be folly, and then steadied to the old
monotonous beat. She grew to hate the face of the tall clock in the
corner ticking off the seconds glibly, leering as the time grew late,
as if it alone knew her secret and mocked her disappointment. Thomas
Hardin, coming in on one or two occasions, had exclaimed at the sight
of her colorless face. Ordinarily she knew his step, but now her
strained nerves misinter