Contrary Mary

Mary flashed a glance at him. His voice had changed. Delilah was

coming toward them. "There's material I like to work with," he said,

"there's something more than paint or canvas--living, breathing beauty."

"He's saying things about you," Mary said, as Delilah joined them.

Delilah, coloring faintly, cast down her eyes. "I'm afraid of him,

Mary," she said.

Colin laughed. "You're not afraid of any one."

"Yes, I am. You analyze my mental processes in such a weird fashion.

You are always reading me like a book."

"A most interesting book," Colin's lashes quivered, "with lovely

illustrations."

They laughed, and swept away into a brisk walk, followed by curious

eyes.

If to others Mary's radiance seemed a miracle of returning health, to

Porter Bigelow it was no miracle. Nothing could have more completely

rung the knell of his hopes than this radiance.

Her attitude toward him was irreproachable. She was kinder, indeed,

than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims

upon her. She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for

something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing

could ever make up.

So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and

more and more with Leila--Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed

him with such sweet and clinging dependence--Leila who hung upon his

advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to

help him.

Thus they came in due time to London. And when Leila and her father

left for the German baths, Porter went with them.

It was when he said "Good-bye" to Mary that his voice broke.

"Dear Contrary Mary," he said, "the old name still fits you. You never

could, and you never would, and now you never will."

Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby,

days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual

grief. The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of

them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed,

winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making

herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world

seemed to revolve about her.

And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across

the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.

It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and

Gordon. Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and

laid it beside her plate.