red with her
freely and ungrudgingly, yet to a nature like Mary Ballard's such
things meant little. The real things in life to her were love and
achievement; all else seemed stale and unprofitable.

Of course there would be Constance and the baby. On the hope of seeing
them she lived. Yet in a sense Gordon and the baby stood between
herself and Constance--they absorbed her sister, satisfied her, so that
Mary's love was only one drop added to a full cup.

It was while she pondered over her future that Mary was moved to write
to Roger Poole. The mere putting of her thoughts on paper would ease
her loneliness. She would say what she felt, frankly, freely, and when
the little letters were finished, if her mood changed she need not send
them.

So she began to scribble, setting down each day the thoughts which
clamored for expression.

Porter complained that now she was always writing.

"I'd rather write than talk," Mary said, wearily; and at last he let
the matter drop.

_In Mid-Sea._

DEAR FRIEND O' MINE:

You asked me to write, and you will think that I have more than kept my
promise when you get this journal of our days at sea. But it has
seemed to me that you might enjoy it all, just as if you were with us,
instead of down among your sand-hills, with your sad children (are they
really sad now?) and Cousin Patty's wedding cakes.

There's quite a party of us. Leila and her father and the Jeliffes and
Colin kept to their original plan of coming in May, and we decided it
would be best to cross at the same time, so there's Aunt Frances and
Grace and Aunt Isabelle, and Porter--and me--ten of us. If you and
Cousin Patty were here, you'd round out a dozen. I wish you were here.
How Cousin Patty would enjoy it--with her lovely enthusiasms, and her
interest in everything. Do give her much love. I shall write to her
when I reach London, for I know she will be traveling with us in
spirit; she said she was going to live in England by proxy this summer,
and I shall help her all I can by sending pictures, and you must tell
her the books to read.

To think that I am on my way to the London of your Dick Whittington! I
call him yours because you made me really see him for the first time.

"_There was he an orphan, O, a little lad alone._"

And I am to hear all the bells, and to see the things I have always
longed to see! Yet--and I haven't told this to any one but you, Roger
Poole, the thought doesn't bring