Contrary Mary

"DEAR ROGER POOLE: "I want to be friends again. Such friends as we were in the Tower

Rooms. I know I don't deserve it--but--please.

"MARY BALLARD."

It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not

merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable

chorus of the universe. It seemed an astounding thing that she should

have written thus to him. He had so adjusted himself to the fact of

repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to

believe that such happiness could be his. Yet she had written it; that

she wanted to be--his friend.

At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship. But as he sat

down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time

since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more

to him than friend.

And why not? Why shouldn't he dream? Mary was not like other women.

She looked above and beyond the little things. Might not a man offer

her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?

Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and

love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden

in the sand-hills bloom?

And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here

beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving

perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and

scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to

pine--with the sky unclouded, the air fresh and sweet.

He saw her as she might travel with him comfortably toward the

sand-hills, in a schooner-wagon made for her use, fitted with certain

luxuries of cushions and rugs. He saw her with him in deep still

groves, coming at last to that circle of young pines where he preached,

meeting his people, supplementing his labor with her loveliness. He

saw--oh, dream of dreams--he saw a little white church among the

sand-hills, a little church with a bell, such a bell as the boy had not

heard before Whittington rang them all for him. Later, perhaps, there

might be a rectory near the church, a rectory with a garden--and Mary

in the garden.

So, tired after his journey, he sat with unseeing eyes, needing rest,

needing food, yet feeling no fatigue as his soul leaped over time and

space toward the goal of happiness.

He was aroused by the appearance of Aunt Chloe, the cook.

"I'se jus' been lookin' fo' you, Mr. Roger," she said. "A telegraf

done come, yestiddy, and I ain't knowed what to do wid it."