eiving more letters from
women who read "Give Her A Job," and find that what you had to say upon
an apparently well-worn subject struck a most responsive chord. Can you
not give us another two thousand words upon this, or a similar subject?
This type of article is always most welcome.

That was all. But it inspired Martie to try again. After all, even as a
rich man's wife, she might amuse herself in this way as well as another.

Between the move from the old house, her wedding plans, the claims of
her husband-to-be, and the Library work, she was busy now, every
instant of the day. Yet she found time, as only a busy woman can, for
writing, and put a new ardour into her attempts, because of the little
beginning of encouragement. Hoping and fearing, she presently sent a
second article on its way.

One July evening she stayed rather late at the Library working on a
report. Clifford was delayed in Pittsville, and would not see her until
after dinner; the rare opportunity was too precious to lose. In a day
or two all Monroe would know of her new plans: in six weeks she would
be Clifford's wife.

When the orderly sheets had been put into a long envelope, Martie
pinned on her white hat, and stepped into the level rays of sunset
light that were pouring into Main Street. The little fruit stand
opposite seemed wilted in the heat; hot little summer breezes were
tossing chaff and papers about the street.

Martie's eyes instantly found an unexpected sight: a low, rakish motor
car drawn up to the curb. She had not seen it before in Monroe, nor did
she recognize the man who sat on the seat next the driver's seat, with
his hat pulled over his eyes.

The driver, a handsome big fellow of perhaps forty or more, had just
jumped from the car, and now came toward her. She smiled into a clever,
unfamiliar face that yet seemed oddly recognizable. He asked her
something.

"I beg your pardon?" she had to say, her eyes moving quickly from him
to his companion, who had turned about in the seat, and was watching
them. Her heart stopped beating for a second, then, commenced to race.
Her colour rose in a radiant flood. With three swift steps she had
passed the big man, and was at the curb, and leaning over the car.

"John--!" she stammered. "My dear--my dear!"

The man in the car turned upon her the smile she knew so well: a
child's half-merry, half-wistful smile, from sea-blue eyes in fair
lashes. Time vanished, and Martie felt that she mi