ade;
then throwing herself on the bed, she had a good cry. Her nerves were
terribly wrought up. Things seemed twisted in her mind, and she felt
that she had reached the limit of her endurance. Here was she, Margaret
Earle, newly elected teacher to the Ashland Ridge School, lying on her
bed in tears, when she ought to be getting settled and planning her new
life; when the situation demanded her best attention she was wrought up
over a foolish little personal dislike. Why did she have to dislike a
minister, anyway, and then take to a wild young fellow whose life thus
far had been anything but satisfactory even to himself? Was it her
perverse nature that caused her to remember the look in the eyes of the
Boy who had rescued her from a night in the wilderness, and to feel
there was far more manliness in his face than in the face of the man
whose profession surely would lead one to suppose he was more worthy of
her respect and interest? Well, she was tired. Perhaps things would
assume their normal relation to one another in the morning. And so,
after a few minutes, she bathed her face in the little, heavy,
iron-stone wash-bowl, combed her hair, and freshened the collar and
ruffles in her sleeves preparatory to going down for the evening meal.
Then, with a swift thought, she searched through her suit-case for every
available article wherewith to brighten that forlorn room.

The dainty dressing-case of Dresden silk with rosy ribbons that her girl
friends at home had given as a parting gift covered a generous portion
of the pine bureau, and when she had spread it out and bestowed its
silver-mounted brushes, combs, hand-glass, and pretty sachet, things
seemed to brighten up a bit. She hung up a cobweb of a lace boudoir cap
with its rose-colored ribbons over the bleary mirror, threw her kimono
of flowered challis over the back of the rocker, arranged her soap and
toothbrush, her own wash-rag and a towel brought from home on the
wash-stand, and somehow felt better and more as if she belonged. Last
she ranged her precious photographs of father and mother and the dear
vine-covered church and manse across in front of the mirror. When her
trunks came there would be other things, and she could bear it, perhaps,
when she had this room buried deep in the home belongings. But this
would have to do for to-night, for the trunk might not come till
morning, and, anyhow, she was too weary to unpack.

She ventured one more look out of her wind