he was strong, in the midst of some social success, when people
swarmed about her and men bent deferentially, then she held herself
like a soldier on a tower, defying capture.

But at night, when the lights were all out, when she felt her
essential loneliness and weakness and need, when the world seemed cold
and cruel and selfish,--then it seemed as if the sweetest thing in the
universe would be to have him open his arms and say "Come!"

There would be rest there, and repose. His judgment, his keen wit, his
penetrating, powerful influence, made him seem a giant to her; a giant
who disdained effort and gave out an appearance of indifference and
lassitude. She had known physical giants in her neighborhood, who
spoke in soft drawl and slouched lazily in action, but who were
invincible when aroused.

She imagined she perceived in Mason a mental giant, who assumed
irresolution and weakness for reasons of his own. He was always off
duty when she saw him, and bent more upon rest than a display of
power. Once or twice she saw him roused, and it thrilled her; that
measured lazy roll of voice changed to a quick, stern snarl, the brows
lowered, and the big plump face took on battle lines. It was like a
seemingly shallow pool, suddenly disclosed to be of soundless depths
by a wind of passion.

The lake had been the refuge of the distracted and restless girl. She
went to it often in the autumn days, for it rested her from the noise
of grinding wheels, and screams, and yells. Its smooth rise and fall,
its sparkle of white-caps, its sailing gulls, filled her with
delicious pleasure. It soothed her and it roused her also. It gave her
time to think.

The street disturbed her, left her purposeless and powerless; but out
there where the ships floated like shadows, and shadows shifted like
flame, and the wind was keen and sweet,--there she could get her
mental breath again. She watched it change to wintry desolation, till
it grew empty of vessels and was lonely as the Arctic Sea; and always
it was grand and thought-inspiring.

She went out one day in March, when the home longing was upon her and
when it seemed that the city would be her death. She was tired of her
food, tired of Mary, tired of her room. Her forehead was knotted
tensely with pain of life and love--

She cried out with sudden joy, for she had never seen the lake more
beautiful. Near the shore a great mass of churned and heaving ice and
snow lay like a robe of shaggy