e. Resolutely she had
conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had
read of that sordid marriage and its sequence. Resolutely she had
risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole
of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had
fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.

Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;
life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.

To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not
thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for
him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it. There
had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she
had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love
come to me--at last?" But she had not answered it. She knew that she
would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which
was, as yet, hidden from him.

But how could she best help him to find that meaning? Dimly she felt
that it was to be through her that he would find it. And he was going
away. And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of
hope.

It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.

She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands. She had the simple
faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had
asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that
her prayers would be answered.

It was late when she left the church. And she was late in getting
home. All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no
light in the Tower Rooms. Roger, who dined down-town, would not come
until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.

As she passed through the garden, she saw that on a bush near the
fountain bloomed a late rose. She stooped and picked it, and flitting
in the dusk down the path, she entered the door which led to the Tower
stairway.

And when, an hour later, Roger Poole came into the quiet house, weary
and worn from the strain of a day in which he had tried to read his
letter with Mary's eyes, he found his room dark, except for the flicker
of the fire.

Feeling his way through the dimness, he pulled at last the little chain
of the electric lamp on his table. The light at once drew a circle of
gold on the dark dull oak. And within that circle he saw the