Contrary Mary

Then Roger told her what he had been reluctant to tell. "I saw him

down-town. I think he was on his way to the Country Club. He had been

dining with some friends."

"Men friends?"

"Yes. He called one of them Jerry."

He saw the color rise in her face. "I hate Jerry Tuckerman, and Barry

promised Constance he'd let those boys alone."

Her voice had a sharp note in it, but he saw that she was struggling

with a gripping fear.

This, then, was the burden she was bearing? And what a brave little

thing she was to face the world with her head up.

"Would you like to have me call the Country Club--I might be able to

get your brother on the wire."

"Oh; if you would."

But he was saved the trouble. For, even while they spoke of him, Barry

came, and Mary went down to him.

A little later, there were stumbling steps upon the stairs, and a voice

was singing--a strange song, in which each verse ended with a shout.

Roger, stepping out into the dark upper hall, looked down over the

railing. Mary, a slender shrinking figure; was coming with her brother

up the lower flight. Barry had his arm around her, but her face was

turned from him, and her head drooped.

Then, still looking down, Roger saw her guide those stumbling steps to

the threshold of the boy's room. The door opened and shut, and she was

alone, but from within there still came the shouted words of that

strange song.

Mary stood for a moment with her hands clenched at her sides, then

turned and laid her face against the closed door, her eyes hidden by

her upraised arm.