Contrary Mary

She turned down Connecticut Avenue, and walking lightly and quickly

came at last to the old church, where all her life she had worshiped.

At this hour there was no service, and she knelt for a moment, then sat

back in her pew, glad of the sense of absolute immunity from

interruption.

And as she sat there in the stillness, one sentence from his letter

stood out.

"And now what meaning for me had the candles on the altar, what meaning

the voices in the choir? I had sung, too, in the light of the candles,

but it was ordained that my voice must be forever still."

This to Mary was the great tragedy--his loss of courage, his loss of

faith--his acceptance of a passive future. Resolutely she had

conquered all the shivering agony which had swept over her as she had

read of that sordid marriage and its sequence. Resolutely she had

risen above the faintness which threatened to submerge her as the whole

of that unexpected history was presented to her; resolutely she had

fought against a pity which threatened to overwhelm her.

Resolutely she had made herself face with clear eyes the conclusion;

life had been too much for him and he had surrendered to fate.

To say that his letter in its personal relation to herself had not

thrilled her would be to underestimate the warmth of her friendship for

him; if there was more than friendship, she would not admit it. There

had been a moment when, shaken and stirred by his throbbing words, she

had laid down his letter and had asked herself, palpitating, "has love

come to me--at last?" But she had not answered it. She knew that she

would never answer it until Roger Poole found a meaning in life which

was, as yet, hidden from him.

But how could she best help him to find that meaning? Dimly she felt

that it was to be through her that he would find it. And he was going

away. And before he went, she must light for him some little beacon of

hope.

It was dark in the church now except for the candle on the altar.

She knelt once more and hid her face in her hands. She had the simple

faith of a child, and as a child she had knelt in this same pew and had

asked confidently for the things she desired, and she had believed that

her prayers would be answered.

It was late when she left the church. And she was late in getting

home. All the lower part of the house was lighted, but there was no

light in the Tower Rooms. Roger, who dined down-town, would not come

until they were on their way to Mrs. Bigelow's.