ose which bloomed. Resolutely she set
herself to be cheerful; conscientiously, she told herself that she must
live up to the theories which she had professed; sternly, she called
herself to account that she did not exult in the freedom which she had
craved. Constantly her mind warred with her heart, and her heart won;
and she faced the truth that all seasons would be dreary without Roger
Poole.

Her letters to him of late had lacked the spontaneity which had at
first characterized them. She knew it, and tried to regain her old
sense of ease and intimacy. But the doubts which Porter had planted
had borne fruit. Always between her and Roger floated the vision of
the little saint in red.

It was inevitable that Roger's letters should change. He ceased to
show her the side which for a time he had so surprisingly revealed.
Their correspondence became perfunctory--intermittent.

"It is my own fault," Mary told herself, yet the knowledge did not make
things easier.

And now began the winter of her discontent. If any one had told her in
her days of buoyant self-confidence that she would ever go to bed weary
and wake up hopeless, she would have scorned the idea; yet the fact
remained that the fruit of her independence was Dead Sea apples.

It was a letter from Barry which again brought her head up, and made
her life march once more to a martial tune.

"I have found the work for which I am fitted," he wrote; "you don't
know how good it seems. For so many years I went to my desk like a boy
driven to school. But now--why, I work after hours for the sheer love
of it--and because it seems to bring me nearer to Leila."

This from Barry, the dawdler! And she who had preached was whimpering
about heat and cold, about long hours and hard work--as if these things
matter!

Why, life was a Great Adventure, and she had forgotten!

And now she began to look about her--to find, if she could, some ray to
illumine her workaday world.

She found it in the friendliness and companionship of her office
comrades--good comrades they were--fighting the battle of drudgery
shoulder to shoulder, sharing the fortunes of the road, needing, some
of them, the uplift of her courage, giving some of them more than they
asked.

As Mary grew into their lives, she grew away somewhat from her old
crowd. And if, at times, her gallant fight seemed futile--if at times
she could not still the cry of her heart, it was because she was a
woman, ma