She began to realize how different Santa Paloma was without his big
figure, his laughter, his joyous comment upon people and things. She
had taken his comradeship for granted, taken it as just one more
element of the old childish days regained, never thought of its rude
interruption or ending.

Now she felt ashamed and sore, she had been playing with fire, she told
herself severely; she had perhaps hurt him; she had certainly given
herself needless heartache. No romantic girl of seventeen ever suffered
a more unreasoning pang than did Sidney when she came upon Barry's
shabby, tobacco-scented office coat, hanging behind his desk, or found
in her own desk one of the careless notes he so frequently used to
leave there at night for her to find in the morning.

However, in the curious way that things utterly unrelated sometimes
play upon each other in this life, these days of bewilderment and
chagrin bore certain good fruit. Sidney had for some weeks been
planning an attack upon the sympathies of the Santa Paloma Women's
Club, but had shrunk from beginning it, because life was running very
smoothly and happily, and she was growing too genuinely fond of her new
neighbors to risk jeopardizing their affection for her by a move she
suspected would be unpopular.

But now she was unhappy, and, with the curious stoicism that is born of
unhappiness, she plunged straight into the matter. On the third day
after Barry's disappearance she appeared at the regular meeting of the
club as Mrs. Carew's guest.

"I hope this means that you are coming to your senses, ye bad girl!"
said Mrs. Apostleman, drawing her to the next chair with a fat
imperative hand.

"Perhaps it does," Sidney answered, with a rather nervous smile. She
sat attentive and appreciative, through the reading of a paper entitled
"Some Glimpses of the Real Burns," and seemed immensely to enjoy the
four songs--Burns's poems set to music--and the clever recitation of
several selections from Burns that followed.

Then the chairman announced that Mrs. Burgoyne, "whom I'm sure we all
know, although she isn't one of us yet (laughter), has asked permission
to address the club at the conclusion of the regular program." There
was a little applause, and Sidney, very rosy, walked rapidly forward,
to stand just below the platform. She was nervous, obviously, and spoke
hurriedly and in a rather unnatural voice.

"Your chairman and president," she began, with a little inclinati