Contrary Mary

Porter's offering to Mary was a quaint ring set with rose-cut diamonds

and emeralds.

Aunt Frances, hovering over it, exclaimed at its beauty. "It's a

genuine antique?"

He admitted that it was, but gave no further explanation.

Later, however, he told Mary, "It was my grandmother's. She belonged

to an old French family. My grandfather met her when he was in the

diplomatic service. He was an Irishman, and it is from him I get my

hair."

"It's a lovely thing. But--Porter--it mustn't bind me to anything. I

want to be free."

"You are free. Do you remember when you were a kiddie that I gave you

a penny ring out of my popcorn bag? You didn't think that ring tied

you to anything, did you? Well, this is just another penny prize

package."

So she wore it on her right hand and when he said "Good-night," he

lifted the hand and kissed it.

"Girl, dear, may this be the merriest Christmas ever!"

And now the tears overflowed. They were alone in the lower hall and

there was no one to see. "Oh, Porter," she wailed, "I'm missing

Constance dreadfully--it isn't Christmas--without her. It came over me

all at once--when I was trying to think that I was happy."

"Poor little Contrary Mary--if you'd only let me take care of you."

She shook her head. "I didn't mean to be--silly, Porter."

"You're not silly." Then after a silence, "Shall you go to early

service in the morning?"

"Yes."

"May I go?"

"Of course. Barry's going, too."

"You mean that you won't let me go with you alone."

"I mean nothing of the kind. Barry always goes. He used to do it to

please mother, and now he does it--for remembrance."

"I'm so jealous of my moments alone with you. Why can't Leila stay

with you to-night, then there will be four of us, and I can have you to

myself. I can bring the car, if you'd rather."

"No, I like to walk. It's so lovely and solemn."

"Be sure to ask Leila."

She promised, and he went away, having to look in at a dance given by

one of his mother's friends; and Mary, returning to join the others,

pondered, a little wistfully, on the fact that Porter Bigelow should be

so eager for a privilege which Roger Poole had just declined.