ere. Mother won't do it because she's afraid of wraiths"--Peggy
pronounced it "wraths," and it was evidently a quotation from Mrs.
O'Mara--"and it would be twice as scary for you. Though, to be sure, I
suppose you'd have Francis. I suppose that's your reason, the both of
you--it sounds like the bossy sort of plan Francis makes."

This had not occurred to Marjorie. But she saw now that the only
plausible reason not the truth that they could give for her taking
Pierre's job was her desire to see more of her husband.

"Well, it's natural we should want to see more of each other," she
began lamely.

"Oh, I suppose so," said Peggy offhandedly, and with one ear pricked
toward the music. "But when my time comes I hope I won't be that bad
that I drag a poor girl off to do cooking, so I can see the more of
her."

"You're getting your sexes mixed," said Francis coolly, strolling up
behind the girls. "Peggy, your partner is looking for you. I'll take
you over after luncheon to-morrow, Marjorie."

"Very well," she said. "Good-night."

If his heart smote him, as Marjorie's little, indomitable figure
mounted the stairs, shoulders back and head high, he made no sign of
it. Instead, in spite of the preponderance of men, he went back to the
dance, and danced straight through till the end had come.

Marjorie went to bed, as she had said she would do. She did not go to
sleep. Marjorie, as has been said, was not brave--that is, she could
and did do brave things, but she always did them with her heart in her
slippers. She did not know what the cooking would be, but she was sure
it would be worse than she could imagine, and too much for her
strength. The only comfort was the recollection that the dear brown
cabin was hers to live in, every moment that she was not at work. She
would have that rest and comfort. There was the shelf of books chosen
for her by the far-off Francis who was not doubtful of her, and loved
her and dreamed about her, and built a house all around the vision of
her. And there might be times when she could hurry up a great deal,
and lie on the window-seat and look out at the woodlands and dream.

She finally went to sleep. She wakened with a start, early, vaguely
remembering that there was a great deal to do. Full remembrance came
as she sprang out of bed and ran down the hall to her bath. She had to
pack, and after luncheon Francis would carry her off to imprisonment
with hard labor. And--why