struggle for voice, if fate turns the screws
of destiny upon duty, there is tragedy. Only the consequences of a day
or a deed can decide whether it shall have the warm blessing of our
smiles or the bitter benediction of our tears.

This, one must remember in reading the chapter of this story that shall
follow. It is the close of the story to which Mary Adams, with her
memory book and notes and clippings, has contributed much. For of the
pile of envelopes all numbered in their order; the one marked "Margaret
Mueller" was the last envelope that she left. Now the package that
concerns Margaret Mueller may not be transcribed separately but must be
woven into the woof of the tale. The package contains a clipping, a
dozen closely written pages, and a photograph--a small photograph of a
girl. The photograph is printed on the picture of a scroll, and the
likeness of the girl does not throb with life as it did thirty years ago
when it was taken. Then the plump, voluptuous arm and shoulders in the
front of the picture seemed to exude life and to bristle with the
temptation that lurked under the brown lashes shading her big, innocent,
brown eyes. And her hair, her wonderful brown hair that fell in a great
rope to her knees, in this photograph is hidden, and only her frizzes,
covering a fine forehead, are emphasized by the picture maker. One may
smile at the picture now, but then when it was taken it told of the red
of her lips and the pink of her flesh, and the dimples that forever went
flickering across her face. In those days, the old-fashioned picture
portrayed with great clearness the joy and charm and impudence of that
beautiful face. But now the picture is only grotesque. It proves rather
than discloses that once, when she was but a young girl, Margaret Mueller
had wonderfully molded arms and shoulders, regular features and
enchanting eyes. But that is all the picture shows. In the photograph is
no hint of her mellow voice, of her eager expression and of the
smoldering fires of passion, ambition and purpose that smoked through
those gay, bewitching eyes. The old-fashioned frizzled hair on her
forehead, the obvious pose of her hand with its cheap rings, the curious
cut of her dress, made after that travesty of the prevailing mode which
country papers printed in their fashion columns, the black court-plaster
beauty spot on her cheek and the lace fichu draped over her head and
bare shoulders, all stand out like grinning gargoyl