Contrary Mary

"I fancy it must have been the man's fault if marriage with such a wife

was a failure," he ventured.

Colin shrugged. "Who can tell?" he said. "There were moments when she

did not seem a saint."

"What do you mean?" Porter's voice was almost irritable.

"It is hard to tell," the little artist reflected--"now and then a

glance, a word--seemed to give her away."

"You may have misunderstood."

"Perhaps. But men who know women rarely misunderstand--that kind."

"Did you ever hear Roger Poole preach?" Porter asked, abruptly.

"Several times. He promised to be a great man. It was a pity."

"And you say she married again."

"Yes, and died shortly after."

The subject ended there, and Porter went away with the vision in his

mind of Roger's wife, and of what the picture of the little saint in

red would mean to Mary Ballard if she could see it.

The thought, having lodged like an evil seed, grew and flourished.

Of late he had seen comparatively little of Mary. He was not sure

whether she planned deliberately to avoid him, or whether her work

really absorbed her. That she wrote to Roger Poole he knew. She did

not try to hide the fact, but spoke frankly of Roger's life in the

pines.

The flames of his jealous thought burned high and hot. He refused to

go with his father and mother to the northern coast, preferring to stay

and swelter in the heat of Washington where he could be near Mary. He

grew restless and pale, unlike himself. And he found in Leila a

confidante and friend, for the General, like Mr. Jeliffe, was held in

town by the late Congress.

Little-Lovely Leila was Little-Lonely Leila now. Yet after her

collapse at the boat, she had shown her courage. She had put away

childish things and was developing into a steadfast little woman, who

busied herself with making her father happy. She watched over him and

waited on him. And he who loved her wondered at her unexpected

strength, not knowing that she was saying to herself, "I am a wife--not

a child. And I mustn't make it hard for father--I mustn't make it hard

for anybody. And when Barry comes back I shall be better fitted to

share his life if I have learned to be brave."

She wrote to Barry--such cheerful letters, and one of them sent him to

Gordon.

"It would have been better if I had brought her with me," he said, as

he read extracts; "she's a little thing, Gordon, but she's a wonder.

And she's the prop on which I lean."