till, we can easily get
around that difficulty. We can have the letter-heads lithographed
'President, M. Spencer.' Then if our correspondents have imaginations,
they will think that the M stands for Matthew or Mark or Michael or
Malachi. One thing sure," he smiled at the new president, "they'll never
think of Mary."

As in the case of the factory, Uncle Stanley had also been vice-president
of the First National Bank. A few days after the proceedings above
recorded, the stockholders of the bank met to choose a new president.
There was only one vote and when it was counted, Stanley Woodward was
found to be elected.

"I wonder what he'll be doing next," said Mary uneasily when she heard
the news.

"My dear girl," gently protested the judge, "you mustn't be so
suspicious. It will poison your whole life and lead you nowhere."

Mary thought that over.

"You know the old saying, don't you?" he continued. "'Suspicion is the
seed of discord.'"

"Yes," nodded Mary, trying to smile, though she still looked troubled. "I
know the old saying--but--the trouble is--I know Uncle Stanley, too, and
that's what bothers me..."

CHAPTER XII

At this point I had meant to tell you more of Wally Cabot--most perfect,
most charming of lovers--but first I find that I must describe a passage
which took place one morning between Mary and Uncle Stanley's son Burdon.

Perhaps you remember Burdon, the tall, dark young man who "smelled nice"
and wore a white edging on the V of his waistcoat.

As far back as Mary could remember him, he had appealed to her
imagination.

His Norfolk jackets, his gold cigarette case and match box, his air of
distinction, his wealth of black hair which grew to a point on his
forehead, even the walking stick which he sometimes carried; to Mary's
mind these had always been properties in a human drama--a drama
breathless with possibilities, written by Destiny and entitled Burdon
Woodward.

It is hard to express some things, and this is one of them. But among
your own acquaintances there are probably one or two figures which stand
out above the others as though they had been selected by Fate to play
strenuous parts--whether Columbine, clown or star. Something is always
happening to them. Wherever they appear, they seem to hold the centre of
the stage, and when they disappear a dullness falls and life seems flat
for a time. You think of them more often than you realize, perhaps with a
smile, perhaps with