MAMIE CARPENTER

I

Millersville, Missouri, was the usual small town. It boasted, according to the Millersville Eagle and the annual leaflet of the Chamber of Commerce, a population of twenty thousand souls. There were, perhaps, ten thousand actual human beings in Millersville, including the farmers within a radius of five miles, the few Italians and Slavs down near the railroad tracks, and the negroes.

Millersville’s main street extended nearly the full length of the town, footed by the Sulpulpa River and the Union Depot, and headed by the Brick Church. On Hill Street were the Grand Hotel—five stories high; the Bon Marché and the New York Store, whose buyers went to New York—or anyhow Chicago—twice each year; the Busy Bee, candy fresh every day, always two kinds of ice cream, with marble topped tables in the back half of it for sodas and ice creams; an assortment of drug stores and cigar stores; garages, still carrying the outward semblance of the stables from which they had sprung; “gents’ furnishings,” with clerks who copied, in their fashion, the styles in the men’s clothing advertisements, always standing near the doors where they could most easily ogle the feminine passerby; groceries displaying the season’s best potatoes and onions, with sawdust floors and clerks in white aprons and pencils behind their ears; and two furniture stores with windows brimming with golden oak rockers.

On either side of Hill Street, the streets stretched out in a regular checkerboard, the first blocks of them devoted to the lesser business establishments that had overflowed Hill Street, and the remaining blocks given over to residences. The majority of these streets, a few blocks out, were full of neat houses—old houses with mansard roofs and cupolas; new houses in atrocious, too-low bungalow effects, with awful, protruding roofs; simple white cottages, each with its green lawn and over half with a red swing in front and a small, one-car garage in back. Then came a turning into tumbledown negro quarters or the homes of the neighbourhood “white trash.”

There was a difference in streets, too. Up near the Brick Church the streets were respectable for all their length, the houses were bigger, and the lawns were better cared for. Maple Street, the last to enter Hill, was the best of all, turning into Maple Road, later on, when it became even more select until, when it reached Burton Addition—the old Burton farm—it burst forth into a spasm of country homes, a dozen of them, with pretentiously landscaped “grounds.”

Each house showed an attempt at grandeur in architecture. Some aped Southern Colonial, with white clapboards or brick; others aimed at English styles, with stucco or half-timber. Each house, too, had a peculiar, inappropriate and ineffectual name: “The Elms,” “The Lonesome Pine,” “Pleasure,” “Crestwood,” “Hilltop.” Miss Drewsy, of the Millersville Eagle, whose rich cousins, the Horns, lived in Maple Street, which gave her social standing, mentioned the names of these houses in her society column, whenever possible.

On the other side of town, toward Union Station and the river, the streets became gradually less pleasing and less important, until, when one reached Gillen Row, the neat houses had given way to grey ramshackle affairs, a bit tipsy as to roof or wall or chimney, with a porch awry, a baluster missing and an occasional broken window patched with papers or rags. These houses were surrounded by grey lawns tufted with weeds, and around them were unpainted picket fences with half the pickets missing.

Mamie Carpenter lived in Gillen Row, in the least pleasing block of it. Her home was a one-story cottage which had, in its adolescence, showed the spruce yellow and white of a poached egg, but in its senility one could barely see the remains of this glory. The porch which ran across the front sagged. One of the posts was missing. The bottom of the three steps leading up to the porch was loose, the wood breaking into long brown slivers under one’s foot. One went directly from the unevenly floored porch, which held two once-green rockers and a bench of slatted wood, into the living room, papered in what had formerly been gold and green but was now a more fortunate, though dirty, tan.

The living room held a figured red rug, a table and half a dozen unmatched chairs, mostly rockers, of uncertain wood and construction. Back of this was the dining-room, with a table and four chairs and a huge, golden oak, mirrored sideboard. Next came a narrow hallway, leading on one side to a dark green kitchen, and on the other to the small and incomplete bath. Beyond were the two bedrooms, one occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter, who slept in a large bed of yellow wood, with high head and foot board, new when they were married, twenty-two years before, and the other, with its iron and brass bed and rickety dresser of imitation mahogany, occupied by their daughter Mamie.

II

Mamie Carpenter was twenty-one. She could have passed for eighteen; she knew it and, when meeting new acquaintances, she often did. She was small and had blonde hair, not white and faded-looking, but real blonde, which needed only an occasional touching up with peroxide to be a lovely, gleaming mass of gold. Her hair was not especially thick nor long, but it waved naturally and Mamie had acquired the knack of doing it high on her head so that it looked pleasantly mussed and fresh.

Her nose was short and well chiselled. Her eyes were round and blue and she pencilled them just a little, which gave the necessary accent. Her mouth was perhaps a bit too full, but her complexion was creamy and her cheeks pleasantly pink and plump. She had learned that if you can’t afford many things, it’s better to stick to plain things—if your figure is good enough. Mamie’s figure was trim and softly curved, with a roundness that hinted of fat at thirty.

Mamie clerked at the Busy Bee candy store. She had left school in her second year of High School when, after a series of small accidents at the yards, her father, a “railroad man,” found himself more frequently out of work than usual.

She had become tired of school, anyhow, but had kept on going until then, partly out of habit and partly because she felt superior to her parents and her neighbours and wanted the further superiority of a higher education. Her mother could do nothing but housework, and that but poorly, and would not consider the indignity of doing menial labour for others, so Mamie, not knowing where to turn at first, and being untrained, went into the overall factory, one of Millersville’s few industries. She found the work monotonous and disagreeable. A doctor’s reception room and a cashier’s cage next claimed her in turn. Both bored her.

Then she heard that the Busy Bee was enlarging the store and wanted pretty saleswomen. Mamie knew she was pretty. She applied for and got the job and had been there ever since. Mamie daily disproved the theories that, if you give a girl enough candy to eat she soon tires of it, that candy-shop girls do not care for sweets, and that sugar ruins the complexion. She nibbled at chocolates at intervals all day long, and, except that perhaps her cheeks were a bit pinker, her hair a trifle more blonde, she remained just the same.

To the mere buyer of candy, Mamie was one of the pretty, polite little girls in big white aprons who waited on you at the Busy Bee. To her acquaintances and the dwellers in Gillen Row she was old Joe Carpenter’s girl, a reproach in itself—rather a wild piece. To Millersville, socially, she was, of course, nothing at all. She did not exist to Millersville’s smartest circle except as a purveyor of sweets. She was below even the least important members of the church societies, who occasionally got into the end paragraphs in Miss Drewsy’s society column.

Mamie knew how Millersville felt about her, and her liking for Millersville was shaped accordingly. She especially disliked the “society girls,” the ones who lived in Maple Road, because they had good times and did the sort of things she would like to have done. They could flirt and not get talked about. The girls in the Busy Bee looked up to them, whispered about them when they came in.

The rest of Millersville Mamie didn’t mind, but she despised those girls with a keen, sharp, unbelievable hate. She was better looking than any of them. She knew that. Society? Good blood? Family? What did they mean, in Millersville?

Mamie scorned Millersville’s social pretensions. She knew that in some cities, London and New York, maybe, there was society, real people with generations of good blood back of them, and money and breeding. People like that Mamie could look up to. But she knew Millersville. In Millersville, what did society amount to? A joke; that’s what it was. No one really came to anything, did anything.

The Elwood Simpsons, the leaders of Millersville society—look at them! There was a little grave in Oakdale Cemetery that Mamie knew all about—and it was closely connected with the girlhood of Mrs. Elwood Simpson—and there were other babies who did not die but who arrived at equally inopportune times. The Coakleys were one of Millersville’s oldest and best families—and Frank Coakley’s half-brother spent most of his time in jail, and his other half-brother, Bill, was half-witted, went around with his tongue hanging out and saying silly things. The Binghams—ugh—they had to get their servants out of town, and sometimes at the last minute had to break engagements because some one in their third floor would cry and scream—their oldest daughter, some said it was.

Mamie knew other things about Millersville society. The rich Ruckers made their money getting land away from ignorant farmers. The Bilcamps made theirs selling fake oil stocks in Oklahoma. There was some sort of a misrun bank in the Grantly family. It wouldn’t do to look too closely into the histories of any of them. Yet they were “society” and had a Country Club—and lots of good times.

Mamie knew she was as good as any of them—better than most. Her family had moved to Millersville from Lexington when she was thirteen. Her father had got into some sort of a scrape over a woman—or a girl—she had never known much about it, but anyhow, it was enough to make them move. Of course the news of it had seeped to Millersville, made the Carpenters a bit more outcast than they would have been, though they wouldn’t have been anything, in any case, without money or connections.

Coming to Millersville hadn’t made any difference to Mamie. The new house was just as unpleasant as the old. She had had just as good a time playing with the boys of the neighbourhood, catching on wagons for rides, in Millersville as in Lexington. She had liked Millersville all right. She had gone to school rather unevenly, staying at home for frequent imaginary ills. But a sense of herself had kept her in school beyond the age of most of her friends.

It was in High School that she had first felt the social barriers of Millersville—and she had sneered at them even as they hurt her. The teachers had all been partial to the two stupid Redding girls, pale-haired, fat and awkward, because Samuel Redding was president of the school board. Their essays had been praised and read aloud in the class. Mamie had known that hers were quite as good and that she was just as clever—and much prettier. But nobody had ever praised or noticed her.

On Friday nights there had been parties, which “the crowd” attended. During the week, eating her lunches in the school lunch-room, echoes of the glories of the parties had reached her—how Marion Smith had let Harold Frederickson put his arm around her, how much salad Louis Bingham had eaten. There had been clubs at school, intimate things with secrets and pins and bows of coloured ribbon; there had been cryptic jokes handed from one member of the selected set to another, to be referred to, giggled over. But Mamie had been out of it all.

There had been other sets, less desirable, the church societies, smaller, less exclusive organizations. Mamie had not been welcomed to these, either, though by a great effort the daughter of old Joe Carpenter might have attained the least of them. She had not wanted to belong. She had not wanted to go with the “society set” of her age, either. It had been more than that. She had wanted them to want her. But her father, a ne’er-do-well, had been run out of Lexington, her mother was a slovenly woman with wispy hair, and her home was a grey shamble in Gillen Row.

So Mamie, as she grew up, did not improve her social position. She remained old Joe Carpenter’s girl, from Gillen Row.

III

But, if society did not recognize Mamie, the masculine element of it did, in a hidden, stealthy way.

Even when she had gone to High School the most desirable boys had offered her—secretly—invitations, moonlight drives—the best people of Millersville did not allow their daughters to drive after sundown with masculine escorts—and other forbidden pleasures. When she was younger Mamie accepted these invitations, but when she grew older and came to the Busy Bee to work, she learned how unpleasant they could be. Gradually, the men had ceased bothering about her. After all, she was only old Carpenter’s daughter and not a good sport—no pep to her.

In the Busy Bee, too, had come invitations from the commercial travellers who hung around the Grand Hotel. Mamie accepted them for a while. She wanted a good time. She flirted and laughed, went for walks and drives. But finally she stopped going with the travelling men—refused their invitations altogether. She didn’t know why—just no fun any more, nothing to it.

Not that these refusals helped her reputation in Millersville. A girl as pretty as Mamie and coming from such a neighbourhood as Gillen Row and with Joe Carpenter as a father had no reputation to lose.

But when she quit “running around” it left her pretty much alone. She even refused the invitations of the girls who worked with her at the Busy Bee. Their homes were neater than hers. She couldn’t return their invitations. Anyhow, she didn’t care anything about them. Their beaux, decent clerks, annoyed her. Occasionally, lately, she had allowed Will Remmers, of the New York Store, to take her to some of Millersville’s infrequent theatrical performances. She didn’t care for Will Remmers, a stupid fellow who thought he was doing her a favour, but, at least, he was decent—some one to go with. She didn’t care for any one especially. She had learned a lot about men, being pretty and meeting them since she was sixteen.

Mamie had tried to think of some way to get out of Millersville, but she never went far enough to plan anything definitely. The home in Gillen Row took all of her money; she could barely keep out enough to dress decently. She saw no future by the route of the drummers of the Grand Hotel. She had no profession or training. Really, she didn’t dislike being in Millersville. If she could have been one of the society set she felt she would have liked it very well indeed. It was just her position that annoyed her—having nothing, no pretty things, being nothing—when girls like the Reddings had so much.

The Reddings especially annoyed Mamie.

There were two Redding girls: Sophie, the older, rather fat and white with colourless hair, and Esther, a bit more presentable, but a trifle more stupid, if anything. The Redding girls giggled, holding their heads on one side. They tossed their light curls. They snuggled up to their young men. They were always coming into the Busy Bee, the head of a little group, laughing and chatting, selecting tables with great care, ordering elaborate sundaes or sodas. They always had new little tricks, new clothes. If they recognized Mamie as one of their old schoolmates, they gave no sign. They had each had a year at the Craig School, a second-rate boarding school that New York maintained for rich Westerners, and liked to forget that they had ever attended any other institution.

When Marlin Embury came into the Busy Bee to make a purchase, Mamie might have paid no attention to him at all if Rose Martin hadn’t nudged her.

“That’s William E. Embury’s son,” she said. “He’s back in town. Do you know him? I read in the Eagle he’s gone in with his father in business. He goes with Sophie Redding. They say he is going to marry her, though they haven’t announced the engagement.”

Mamie looked at Embury and liked him. That nice-looking fellow—for Sophie Redding! Not nearly as handsome as the man who had played in the stock company in Millersville the month before, but not bad-looking—didn’t compare with Wallace Reid or John Barrymore, but then they were only on the screen—pictures as far as she was concerned, and married—she’d read that in a magazine—and Embury was right here.

She knew who Embury was, had seen him, years ago, before he went away to college, had sort of kept track of him through the papers. She had read, several months before, that he was back in Millersville, after two years as manager of some of his father’s oil wells in Oklahoma.

And now he was going with Sophie Redding! Good-looking and rich—the only son of rich parents—and Sophie Redding would get him! He had a good face, was young, couldn’t be more than twenty-four. That young kind is easy—falls for anything. Mamie knew that. He had gone to a boys’ preparatory school, then to a college that was not co-educational, then two years in a little town. Why he didn’t know anything about girls. He’d be easy even for Sophie Redding to capture—Sophie, with her home, “Crestwood,” out in Maple Road, her father, grey-haired and pompous, and her mother, fat and smiling—always giving parties—good times.

No wonder Sophie could get him, even if she was fat and white and silly! Sophie had everything. What chance had she against Sophie?

Until then it hadn’t occurred to Mamie that she was entitled to a chance—that there was even the possibility of her and Sophie having aims in the same direction. And yet—

She looked at Embury.

He had bought a huge box of candy. It was being wrapped up for him. He was a nice boy with sleek black hair, not especially tall, but then she herself was small and didn’t like tall men. He had nice shoulders, a slim figure, a good head, just a boy. Fat Sophie Redding, with her pale eyes and giggles—why, she knew she was prettier—smarter than Sophie! And yet—Sophie—!

Why not do something about it? Do something? Get Embury? Why not? Wasn’t his father about the richest man in Millersville? Wasn’t he the most eligible man in town, now that Bliss Bingham had gone to Chicago and Harold Richardson was married?

There were other men, of course, but either they were old bachelors who knew too much about her, old and snobbish, or poor or too young. Embury had already made good in Oklahoma. Now his father had taken him into business, wouldn’t disinherit him—if he married her. Wasn’t it rumoured that Mrs. Embury—stately and dignified enough now—had before her marriage “worked out”? She wouldn’t dare object too strenuously to Joe Carpenter’s daughter as her daughter-in-law.

After all, Mamie had always wondered if she could do something clever if she had a chance. Here was her chance—she’d never have a better one, she knew that. After all, no one would help her—all she had was herself. Maybe, if she tried hard enough....

Embury took his package and went out of the store. He had not noticed Mamie Carpenter.

IV

Embury was glad to get home again. He thought Millersville a jolly place to live in after Sorgo, Oklahoma, with its constant smell and feel of oil. He enjoyed his old room again and the new car and being with the crowd.

He was not an especially brilliant fellow, nor a rapid thinker, nor much of a reader. He liked a good time, in a quiet way. He wore good clothes and liked to be with others who did. He thought girls were awfully jolly, but hard to get acquainted with. He found the girls in Millersville unusually pleasant. But, of course, that was as it should be; they were home-town girls.

Sophie Redding—she was jolly and cute and had a way of making him feel awfully at home. It was pleasant at the Reddings, sitting out on the big porch and drinking lemonade, with Sophie ready to laugh at his jokes and some of the others of the crowd likely to drop in at any time. Yes, Sophie was a pretty fine girl. His folks liked her, too, always awfully glad when he called on her, kept telling him what a fine girl she was and how much they liked the family. Now, if he showed her a good time all summer and autumn, did all he could for her, maybe Sophie would care for him.

Embury was driving down Hill Street four or five days later when a pretty girl nodded to him, just a formal, pleasant little nod.

Embury couldn’t place her, exactly, but he spoke, of course. He even took his eyes off the road ahead long enough to glance back at her. She was pretty, and he liked little girls who wore plain blue dresses in summer. Some one, probably, he’d met out at the Country Club and didn’t remember. Still, she seemed prettier than most of the girls he had met there. Maybe some one he used to know. He tried to conjure up a childhood acquaintance who might have blossomed into this little blonde girl, but he couldn’t. Anyhow, she was pretty.

Two weeks later, walking up Elm Street after leaving the office—he frequently walked home and always went that way when he did—the same little figure overtook him, passed ahead. His heart palpitated quite pleasantly. But this time the nod was even cooler, more formal. He returned it as cordially as he could. That night there was a dance at the club and Embury watched each new arrival, but there was no pretty little blonde with big eyes and radiant hair. Sophie found him preoccupied and told him so. He tried his best to be more courteous to her. After all, why worry about a strange girl? You couldn’t tell who she might turn out to be.

He saw her again, a week later, when he was driving. Again he received a cool little nod. He’d ask some of the boys about her—she might be good fun—evidently wasn’t one of the crowd. Millersville was a slow place, not much to do, a little affair on the side—by another year he might be married and settled down—might as well have a good time while he could.

He didn’t have to ask any of the boys, for the very next day, on Elm Street, the little figure in blue held out her hand as he overtook her.

“I don’t believe you know me,” she laughed prettily, shyly. “You’ve looked—so amazed, when I’ve spoken. Don’t tell me your years out of town have made you forget old acquaintances altogether. I’m Mamie Carpenter.”

“Why, of course, Miss Carpenter, I’m delighted,” he stammered.

“Oh, I’m so ashamed,” she said, then hurriedly, with embarrassed little pauses between the words: “Here, I’ve stopped you to tell you how—how glad Millersville is to have you back—and—I’m afraid you don’t remember me, after all. I don’t blame you—I was such a little girl when you left—and I’m not—important. But I remember when I went to Grant School, and you were in High, I used to stop every day and watch you practise football. You wore a red sweater, I remember. You—you were one of my youthful heroes, you see.”

He thought, then, that he did remember her, and said so. Little girls change—he knew that. It was pleasant for him to think that, after all these years, she remembered him. He had worn a red sweater—still, wasn’t the school colour red; hadn’t all the other boys worn them, too? Well, anyhow, he had played football. No one else had said anything about those days. How pretty she was—a wonderful complexion! Why, in comparison, it made Sophie’s seem almost pasty. Of course, Sophie was a Redding—that was different—a serious thing, a bully girl, too. Mamie—he liked the name—it was like her, simple, plain, pretty. She might be great fun. To think of her remembering him all these years! What a plain little dress she wore! Poor people, evidently. Oh, well—

Two weeks later, in Elm Street—it was a quiet street, tree-lined—he met Mamie again. She was walking ahead of him, as he turned up from Hill. He caught up with her.

“You live near here?” he asked.

She told him, very seriously, that she lived in Gillen Row and that her parents were awfully poor.

“I—I work, you know—in the Busy Bee, the candy store. It makes things a little easier for mother—and my father. I stopped school before my junior year—to—to help them. Of course I’ve kept up with reading—but—I didn’t mind stopping—my father had an accident and they needed me. It isn’t bad—it’s rather pleasant at the Busy Bee—interesting to watch people.”

“I’m sure you’re the sweetest thing there,” said Embury, and was surprised at his own boldness and a bit ashamed when he saw how Mamie blushed and dropped her eyes. What a dear little thing she was, leaving school to help her folks and not even complaining about it—and not ashamed, either, didn’t try to conceal it. It never occurred to him that he probably would have seen her in the Busy Bee any day and so discovered her position for himself.

“You always walk home in Elm Street?” he asked, to cover her confusion—she was still blushing.

“Yes, it’s so quiet and peaceful, the trees and all.”

“That’s funny. That’s why I go this way, when I don’t take the car to the office.”

“You do?” Mamie showed great surprise. “Isn’t it funny, our tastes in streets?”

Perhaps even more remarkable, if she had mentioned it, would have been the fact that Mamie had never honoured Elm Street with her presence until—investigating by little scurries after leaving the shop in the evening—she had found that Embury usually chose it when walking home.

V

Two days later, Embury walked up Elm Street with Mamie again. He had looked for her the day before, and had been disappointed when he did not see her. Hadn’t she said she walked there every day?

“I didn’t see you yesterday,” he said with a smile, as he joined her.

Mamie explained—not the real fact, that she had taken her old route home so as not to appear too eager for his acquaintance—but that she had gone a shorter way so that she could hurry home to cook dinner—her mother wasn’t well.

“Poor little girl,” thought Embury, “working all day and then cooking dinner at night, too.”

“I missed you,” he said.

Mamie blushed again. She was rather good at it. Many people are.

“Are you going to stay here in Millersville?” Mamie asked.

No use getting excited, working hard over him, if he wasn’t. Embury was the first real opportunity she had had—if she could only get him before the others poisoned his mind against her or before the Reddings made his escape impossible—if he were going to leave Millersville, there wouldn’t be any use bothering about him.

Embury told her that he was to stay in town, and she showed pleasure and blushed again. She asked him about his work and his plans.

To his surprise, Embury found himself telling her about himself. Here was a girl, intelligent, interesting. The other girls didn’t know anything about business. But, of course, thrown on her own resources as she had been, she’d learned to take a real interest in the business world.

They walked together until a block before the street down which Embury usually turned.

“I go this way,” said Mamie.

She could have continued on Elm Street, but she thought it best to be the first to break their walk together.

“Wait a minute; don’t go away so quickly,” said Embury.

He felt as if he were on a delightful adventure.

Quietly, Mamie waited.

“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.

She started to say something, blushed then; “Why, I don’t know—I mean, any evening, walking home this way. I’m at the Busy Bee all day, you know.”

“At night. Can’t I call? Can’t you go for a drive?”

Mamie knew how her home would look to Embury, the porch with its sagging floor, the living-room with its clutter of ugly chairs, her parents quarrelling, more than likely. She couldn’t receive him at home. It didn’t seem fair—she had to fight against so many odds—and Sophie Redding had the whole Redding home, with its great porches, its big living rooms for entertaining. How she hated Sophie Redding with her giggles, her light stringy hair. Still, if she were smart enough—there might be ways....

“I’m afraid I can’t let you call at all,” she said, modestly. “You see, I’m not one of the society girls. It—it wouldn’t look right, I’m afraid. You know how—how careful a girl has got to be.”

What a dear little thing she was! Modest and shy and good. Each second Embury felt himself more and more a man of the world. This little thing, so fragile and dainty—and awfully pretty. Of course she was right. People would talk—and yet....

He didn’t know that Millersville would not talk about Mamie, no matter how many men called on her, that they had talked when she was a little girl and dismissed her, carelessly, as “Joe Carpenter’s daughter, a bad egg.” Mamie knew. It didn’t make her feel any happier. Still, this was no time to worry about it.

“Couldn’t we go for a ride some evening?” he asked. “No one would see us, honestly they wouldn’t.”

“I really couldn’t. Really. You know how it is. I’d love to—but—it wouldn’t be right. I can’t go.”

She appeared to want to yield to him. She knew how society in Millersville regarded girls who went automobiling with young men, alone. Embury would find out, if he didn’t know already, and his opinions would be moulded by the others.

“You’re the funniest girl I ever saw,” he smiled at her.

She was just small enough so that he looked down into her face when he stood close to her. Embury liked little girls. He was glad Mamie was small.

“Other girls would go with me, honestly they would.”

“You’d better take them, then,” she pouted, prettily.

“I don’t mean that. I don’t want to sound conceited. Only I would like to take you, honestly I would. I know a little road house, ‘Under Two Flags,’ where they make awfully good things to eat, French cooking. We could ride out there some night, if you’ll go.”

Mamie knew the road house. She used to think it great fun. She had slapped the faces of six commercial travellers driving home from it and finally had given it up as a dangerous place. It was, nevertheless, a fairly decent resort, with only a slightly sporty reputation, but, after all, the ride there and the supper weren’t worth the trouble of keeping her escort in his place all the way back. Why did men expect such big rewards for a ride and a bite to eat?

Mamie smiled wistfully.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t—tempt me so. You see, I never go driving—I—I don’t have many good times.”

Embury’s conscience hurt him. She was such a dear. Of course she shouldn’t go. He felt more wicked than ever.

“But look here,” he said, “can’t I see you at all?”

Mamie was thoughtful.

“I don’t know,” she said; then, “next Friday I have a holiday—I work every second Sunday, the Busy Bee is open on Sundays too.”

Embury was supposed to be at the office every day but he knew he was not indispensable.

“Fine,” he told her, “that’s awfully good. Can we go in my car and make a picnic of it?”

Mamie thought that would be a lot of fun. They made plans for the meeting. That was Wednesday. On Thursday, Mamie avoided Elm Street.

VI

Friday she was a few minutes late. She had appointed the corner of Elm and East streets as the meeting place. From a distance she saw Embury’s car waiting at the curb near the corner. He sprang out when he saw her.

“This is jolly,” he said.

She looked charming and she knew it. She had on a thin little dress of white, flecked with little rosebuds. It was plain and not new, but very fresh. A floppy leghorn hat was tied under her chin with a pale pink and yellow ribbon. She had trimmed the hat, herself, after a picture she had seen in a copy of Vogue that some one had left in the Busy Bee. She knew it suited her. The night before she had had a quarrel with her father because she had not “turned in” enough money. She had purchased a tiny bottle of her favourite perfume, rather an expensive brand.

It was a perfect day, not too warm nor too sunny. Mamie did not snuggle close, as she felt Sophie would have done. She did not talk too much. But she took off her hat and let the wind blow her hair back—she had washed it the night before and it blew in soft waves. She sat near enough for Embury to smell the perfume of it.

They drove to a small near-by town where Embury attended to some business his father had asked him to look after the week before. At noon he suggested eating in the town’s one hotel. Mamie shuddered prettily, then had an idea.

“Can’t we have a picnic—a real out-of-doors picnic?” she begged. “I’m shut away from the sunshine so much of the time.”

Embury thought the idea delightful. With much laughter, they bought things at the little stores, bread and pickles and olives, tinned meats and cakes and a piece of ice in a bucket and lemons and sugar for lemonade. They rode, then, until a bit of woods attracted them. They soon had the improvised luncheon spread out under a tree.

Embury was surprised at his enjoyment. He watched Mamie’s little white hands arranging the things to eat. He tramped to a near-by farm for water and returned with an extra pail containing fresh, cool milk. It all seemed decidedly pure and rural to him. The food tasted remarkably good and, when they had finished, he leaned against a tree and smoked, smiled as he looked at Mamie, still cool in the sprigged lawn.

“Having a good time?” he asked.

“Wonderful,” she told him, “this is the best time I’ve ever had, I think. It’s different. You’re not like the other men I’ve known. I can—talk with you, tell you things. This seems sort of—of a magic day.”

Embury thought so, too. He told her so. He told her other things, about his business, his thoughts, what he was going to do. Finally, he was telling her about his two years in Oklahoma.

“That was prison,” he said. “It was smoky and oily—you could feel the oil, taste it in your food. It hung over you, all day, like a cloud. Still, it was worth going through—for this.”

“You are—nice,” said Mamie, very softly.

“Let’s keep this day for a secret,” she said. “Just the two of us will know about it. Let’s keep all of our times together as secrets—if we ever see each other again.”

Embury agreed that secrets were very nice things to have.

They were silent for a while.

Finally, he got up, walked over to her. Mamie got to her feet, too. He came close and put his hand on her shoulder, started to put his arms around her.

“You’re a dear little girl,” he said.

Mamie lifted big eyes to him.

“Please don’t,” she moved away, ever so slightly. “Please let me keep to-day perfect—as a memory. We—may never see each other again. I want to remember to-day as it is now. I—”

She broke off, embarrassed. Embury felt suddenly bad, ashamed. How innocent she was! If he were going to be a man of the world, he’d have to think of another way. He couldn’t break the silken wings of her innocence by spoiling her day—her perfect day—she worked so hard and was so good. It had been a pleasant day for him, too. Later—he could see her other times, of course.

“I wanted to make the day more beautiful,” he said, but he did not try to touch her again.

They rode home almost in silence. When she told him good-bye, in Elm Street, she let her hand lie in his a moment. How small it seemed. Why, actually, it trembled.

“When am I going to see you again?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Mamie. Then, “I walk up Elm Street every day, you know. I—I had a wonderful time.” She smiled a bit sadly, and was gone.

That night there was a party at the Country Club and Embury took Sophie Redding.

For the first time since he knew her he noticed how fat her hands were, a trifle red, too—and how she took possession of him, as if they were already married—and he’d never proposed to her. She giggled too much. It made him nervous. He knew a dainty, pretty girl, a simple little girl, who didn’t go to Country Club dances nor roll her eyes nor put her hands on fellows’ shoulders. Of course, Sophie was the sort of girl that a fellow married—position and all that—his mother kept hinting things—what a fine family the Reddings were, what a nice wife Sophie would make....

Still, he was young yet. Too young to settle down. He’d have his fling first, anyhow.

For five days Embury walked home on Elm Street. He did not see Mamie. On the sixth day he went into the Busy Bee. There she was, the blonde hair more golden and beautiful than ever. She smiled a quick greeting at him. He had been afraid to go in, ashamed almost. What if it would embarrass her—what if she didn’t want to see him? Of course, he wasn’t going in to see her—he really had a purchase to make, still....

Should he let her wait on him or get some one else? He saw her speak to another girl. Then she walked back of the counter to meet him.

“Hello,” she said, very low, but gaily.

“How have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you for days.”

She laughed.

“It’s good of you to bother. My mother has been ill again. I wasn’t down at all yesterday. You wanted to buy some candy? May—I wait on you?”

She was so modest, didn’t think he had come in especially to see her. He bought a box of chocolates and took it away under his arm.

That evening he met her in Elm Street.

“The candy is for you,” he told her.

She accepted it, with as seeming a gratitude as if she didn’t get all the candy she could eat all day long.

“You bought my favourite chocolates,” she told him. “I wondered—”

She broke off, blushing.

“Whom they were for?”

“I—I mean I didn’t think they were for me. You know how girls in—in stores gossip. I heard—some one said that you were attentive to—I mean that you liked—some one here in Millersville.”

“I do,” said Embury boldly, and caught her eye.

She blushed again, prettily.

“It was Miss Redding they meant,” she said.

So—people were saying things about him and Sophie Redding. Embury didn’t like it. He was too young to get married. He felt that. That’s the trouble with a small town, no sooner you start going with a girl than the town has you engaged and married. Mrs. Redding, too—she was being too nice to him—too affectionate.

“Miss Redding is an awfully nice girl,” he told her. “We’ve been to a few parties together, but that’s all. You know how Millersville is.”

“I know. I went to High School with the Redding girls. They’re just a few years older than I am. I’m sorry I said anything. I guess I just listened to gossip. You know how you hear things. Just to show how wrong people can be—why, what I heard was that—that Miss Redding herself had said that you were—were going together. Millersville is awfully gossipy, isn’t it?”

So, Sophie had been talking about his going with her. But it was just the thing she would do. A few weeks ago he had felt that if he could win Sophie it would be a very desirable thing. But lately he’d been annoyed at her. She’d shown him too many attentions—or too many pointed slights to pique him. He felt himself falling into a sort of net she was spreading. Why, even this little girl, so far away from the set in which Sophie moved, had heard things. He’d be careful—he wasn’t engaged to Sophie, yet.

He admitted that Millersville was gossipy but that there was “nothing to” the gossip about him. He and Mamie had a pleasant walk up Elm Street.

After that, for several weeks, he met Mamie every day. He tried to make other engagements, but she wouldn’t go for picnics or drives, even on her days off. She told Embury that she had to help her mother, who wasn’t strong and needed her. But she consented to the evening walks home.

How sweet and simple she was, Embury felt. Other girls would have playfully avoided him, teased him, tried to make him more eager by their indifference. Mamie was always admittedly glad to be with him. Excepting when she had to hurry home a shorter way, she was always walking up the street when he overtook her. He began to look forward to these little walks, down the quiet, tree-shaded way. Mamie, on the warmest days seemed to remain cool and fresh-looking, her blonde hair soft and fluffy. In the shade she would take off her hat and turn her face up to catch any stray breeze. She’d have jolly little stories to tell him and be interested in everything that he was doing.

Walking next to her he could watch the soft curve of her body, smell the pleasant fragrance of the perfume she used. Later, when he was alone, he contrasted her; gentle of voice, sweet, simple, sensible; with Sophie and Esther, the other girls of the crowd, their giggles and affectations, their attempts at intimacies, pressing close to him while they danced, overheated after dancing, their hair moist, their voices loud, their behaviour foolish. This little girl had more refinement than any of them—knew how to keep her self-respect, too. These walks were the pleasantest part of his day.

Then, one evening Mamie was standing at the corner of Elm and East Street waiting for him, her eyes wide and frightened. From a distance he had seen her dainty figure, the plain straw hat, the simple frock.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“It’s really nothing,” she said, but her eyes held tears.

“Tell me. Is it serious?”

“It’s nothing. That is, you’ll think it’s nothing at all. I—I can’t tell you. It—spoils things—our little walks, our pleasant friendship.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s awful—Millersville. I hate it—People misunderstand. I’m poor, you know—and work. It’s so easy for people to talk about a girl in my position. And some one told my—my father that I meet you every evening. He—he grew awfully angry. You don’t know my father—he has a terrible temper. I—I can’t ever meet you any more. That’s all.”

She wiped her eyes carefully, with her small handkerchief. “Of course—it’s nothing to you, but it’s meant so much—I’m silly, I guess, but it’s been the pleasant part of—of my life.” She sniffled, very gently.

“My dear, my dear,” Embury was moved. He wanted to take her into his arms. Such a little girl—talked about—because she went walking with him! He danced with other girls, put his arms around them on porches, kissed them, even. And this little girl, walked with him—and even that was denied her.

Suddenly, it came to him how much the walks meant—how much Mamie meant to him. Each day he told her everything he had done, talked over his small business difficulties with her. She was always asking such sensible, thoughtful questions about things. None of the other girls cared—all they cared was that he was old man Embury’s son—good as an escort—or to bring candy or flowers. He had never taken Mamie any place, nor spent money on her. She seemed apart from things—their little walks up the quiet street seemed to belong to another world.

“It’s nonsense,” he said. “I won’t stand it. It’s ridiculous. Of course we can keep on seeing each other.”

“I’m afraid not,” her voice was unsteady.

“But we must. Don’t you care?”

“I—I—told you—I don’t dare think how lonely I’ll be. Thinking about our talks has helped me all day long.”

Mamie wouldn’t let Embury call on her, either. Not just yet—maybe later, when her father was no longer angry. She didn’t dare disobey him, he was rather cross, almost cruel to her.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. At her street Mamie held out her hand and Embury took it and held it. It seemed a very solemn occasion.

Mamie’s expression was not so sad as she turned down the side street. It was decidedly pleasant and smiling. It might have puzzled Embury if he had seen it, but not more than the conversation would have puzzled Joe Carpenter. For, not since Mamie was ten had her father tried to give her advice concerning her associates. No one ever came to him with tales of Mamie and he had never even heard that the rich Mr. Embury had a son.

VII

For weeks, then, Embury didn’t see Mamie. At first he dismissed the whole thing with a careless, “Well, that little affair is over,” a slight disappointment that Mamie hadn’t been a better sport. It was just as well—Some one had told his parents, too, and they had questioned him, rather teasingly, about the companion of his evening walks. But they had been serious, at that. They didn’t want him to get “mixed up” with any one.

Then he began to miss Mamie, miss the chance to talk about himself, miss her soft femininity. To put her out of his mind he devoted himself more thoroughly to Sophie.

After all, she was the girl for him, one of the Redding girls, one of his own class. But when he talked to her he couldn’t help comparing her to Mamie, whom he felt he knew very well. Mamie was fresh and wholesome and innocent. She never went to parties or dances, things like that. Sophie was full of little tricks, liked to say things with double meanings—and giggle. If the girls had been changed around—Sophie in Mamie’s place—he couldn’t quite understand it.

Sophie became too affectionate when he was with her, begged to light his cigarettes, always putting her hands on his shoulders, pinching his arm when anything exciting happened—and then pretending she hadn’t meant to do it. She was an awfully nice girl, of course. But she so definitely pursued him. He got tired of hearing her praises sung at home, too. Her tricks of breaking engagements, pretending indifference—they were worse than her affectionate moods. Her hair was colourless, her eyes too light. Compared with Mamie....

As the days passed he missed Mamie more and more. He hated himself for his stupidity—he found himself passing the Busy Bee on all possible occasions, looking into the windows, over the display of assorted candy, into the store. Sometimes, above the counters, he’d see her, in her crisp white apron, her blonde, radiant hair framing her lovely little face. She was always busy, always cheerful. Other girls wasted their lives having good times. Mamie worked on, day after day—gentle, good. Sometimes Embury thought her face looked serious, a bit sad. Did she miss him?

Finally he couldn’t stand it any longer. He cursed himself for his silliness—he went into the Busy Bee, bought some candy. He had promised himself he wouldn’t annoy her—she was right—it was better that they shouldn’t see each other any more. Yet he was shedding the dignity of an Embury, acting the mere oaf, hanging around a candy store hoping for a smile from a salesgirl. He should have known better, scorned such behaviour. But there he was.

Mamie was busy. He waited—some one called to her and she went into the back of the shop. He felt like a fool—didn’t dare ask for her. He bought his candy and went out. Next day he passed the shop three times. The day after he went inside again. He watched Mamie’s slim fingers flying among the candy trays, putting chocolates into a box for a customer. How he loved her hands. They were too fine for such work. Why—he did love her—of course—that was it—he loved her—no use denying it.

He looked at her—her lovely profile, her fair complexion. She turned—smiled at him, rather a sad little smile—and went on packing chocolates, an adorable colour surging over her face. She had to pack chocolates—his girl! He loved her—and couldn’t even walk down the street with her. He made a purchase and went out, hating himself the rest of the day.

He took the candy out to the Reddings that evening. Ten or twelve of the crowd were there. They turned on the Victrola and danced, then had lemonade. Every one was in high spirits. Some one suggested a short drive to cool off after dancing, so they all piled into the cars that stood waiting for them along Maple Road. Embury drove his car and Sophie sat next to him.

“Propose to her,” something told him. “Go on, get definitely attached, have it over with. Then you’ll be settled, nothing to worry about. No use thinking about Mamie—you can’t marry her.”

But he couldn’t propose, then nor later, when he was alone with her. Sophie chattered. The soft, pleasant night seemed marred. He thought of Mamie, their one ride together. He was sick of Sophie, of her tricks, her silliness, his parents’ praise of her. He wanted Mamie.

He thought of Mamie before he fell asleep that night. He did love her. He knew that. But he couldn’t marry her. Of course not. If he did, though, his father would be horribly disappointed. But he’d get over it—and his mother, too. It wasn’t that. Mamie was far prettier and sweeter than any girl in the crowd. But she didn’t belong—it was just that she lived in Gillen Row. The crowd would laugh at him.

What if they did laugh? Oh, well, it was something. He didn’t want to hurt his future. Mamie was in another set—another world—that was all. He couldn’t marry her. Still—he could see her. There were other things beside marriage. He had to have his fling. He hadn’t had any affairs. He was still young. Here was an affair, that was all. After that—you can settle such things with money—there was time enough for marriage, then—with Sophie, of course.

He woke up feeling quite the conquering hero, as if he had already taken definite steps in his approach on Mamie. She was a dear, a little innocent. He was a college man, a man of the world. Of course she was no match for him. Still—he’d be a fool not to follow the thing up—she was too pretty to leave—if not him, some one else then. Why not him?

At noon, when he left the office in his car, he drove up Gillen Row. What a street! There had been no rain for days—everything was covered with grey dust. There was a horrible sense of rust and decay and dirtiness. He didn’t know which house was Mamie’s, but they all looked alike in the sunshine, a squalid, ramshackle row,—how different from his own home—from the Redding home, with their terraced lawns, their pleasant green bushes and flowers. This was a different life from the life he led, from the pleasant, comfortable ways of his people. And yet—Mamie—

VIII

At half-past five he went into the Busy Bee. Mamie was not busy. She was standing near a glass counter, listlessly leaning one elbow against it. She looked pale, he thought, and yet dainty—dainty and sweet, and she’d come out of Gillen Row. It had been a hot summer. He was glad September was here.

She smiled as she saw him. How little she was! Hadn’t she missed him at all? She had cared a little for him—he felt that. He could make her care again, if she’d give him a chance.

“I must see you,” he told her.

She looked around, rather frightened. He had forgotten that she had to be careful about her position—that she actually was forced to sell candy in the Busy Bee.

“Don’t you want to see me?” he added.

“Of course.”

“You won’t meet me in Elm Street?”

“I don’t dare. I told you. You don’t understand—I—can’t meet you.”

“May I come to see you?”

“I—I told you—”

“But I must see you. Let me call.”

“I don’t—well, all right then, if you want to come. I shouldn’t let you. My father—still, if you want to. I live way down in Gillen Row. We are—are very poor, you know. If you want—”

“Of course I do. Why didn’t you let me come, before? May I come right away, to-night?”

She nodded.

“Where do you live?”

“The third house after Birch Street, Number 530. It’s a little cottage.”

“Go driving with me?”

“I—I told you I couldn’t—at night—and I never have time, other times.”

“To-night then, about eight. How’s that?”

Mamie nodded again, smiled. Embury bought a box of candy to cover his embarrassment.

Going into a candy shop to make an engagement with a shopgirl—trembling when she spoke to him, grinning and ogling over the counter! He had never thought himself capable of that.

As he ate his dinner the engagement became something vastly important, a bit different, a bit devilish. He’d take her out in his car. Of course. It would be a moonlight night. He understood girls. A simple girl like that—

IX

A few minutes before eight he drove up to the cottage where Mamie lived. It was even more terrible than he had imagined it, a crooked little cottage with a funny, sagging porch, the paint peeled off, the lumber turned grey. There had been no attempt to beautify the small grey yard.

As he stepped out of the car Mamie came out on the porch, walked hurriedly toward him. She had on pink, a thin, delicate pink, made very plain. Her complexion looked quite pale, her hair softer and brighter than ever.

She came up to him, put her hand on his arm, drew it back again. The gesture that had been affectation with Sophie became genuine embarrassment here.

“You—can’t—call,” she said nervously. “I told father at dinner. He’s just stepped out. He’d get furious—if he found you here. He—he keeps on harping on what that man told him—about my being seen with you—he says—I’m not in your class—that you don’t mean—aren’t—that I shouldn’t go with you.”

He saw that she was trembling. How soft she was and little. He wouldn’t be cheated out of a ride with her—this evening—hadn’t seen her for a long, long time. How he’d missed her!

“Jump in the car,” he said. “Hurry up, before your father gets back. He’ll never know.”

“I can’t. You don’t know how angry he’d be. Girls don’t ride at night, in Millersville, this way. It will make things worse.”

She drew back.

“You don’t want to go?”

“Oh, I do, I do! You don’t know how much.”

“Then jump in.”

“It wouldn’t be right. You wouldn’t respect me. Other girls—”

“My dear child, you don’t know the world. Other girls go driving at night—and do worse things than that. Only night before last I took a girl out driving—Sophie Redding—Miss Redding and I—”

“I know, but she’s—you know—I told you what I heard.”

“There’s no truth in that. I told you so. Now come on, be a nice girl, jump in. It’s too perfect an evening to waste. We’ll drive down Rock Road. No one will see us.”

“I don’t know—I—”

“Please come. You’ll please me, won’t you?”

He felt bold, masterful, put his hand on her arm. He saw that he had done the wrong thing, been too hasty. She drew away, frightened.

“I—maybe—I’d better not see you any more, ever. That’s what I’d planned—”

“Please come on, won’t you, dear? Don’t talk like that. Come on.”

He let his voice grow tender—he was surprised to find how much he meant the tenderness. What if she wouldn’t go?

She hesitated a moment, then:

“All right,” she nodded, and jumped into the car.

She had ordered her parents to keep away from the front of the house, but she knew them. She was eager to get away before they peered out of the window or slouched out on the porch.

They left Gillen Row and were soon out in the country.

Mamie sighed, a pleasant sigh of happiness.

“I suppose I oughtn’t to be here,” she said. “It’s wrong, I know, but it seems right when I’m with you. I’ve been so lonely lately. It seems wonderful.”

“You’ve missed me a little, then?”

“Missed you—of course.”

The moon came out. They drove along the Sulpulpa River, and the moon rippled a path on the water. Embury stopped the car.

“This is great, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Wonderful. I almost lose my breath at it. I’m that way about scenery—I can’t say much. And to be here, now—”

He looked at her. She seemed almost ethereal in the moonlight, the pale pink of her dress, the soft gleam of her hair.

He put his arm around her, very gently, drew her close to him, held up her chin, looked at her. She was lovely, her fragrant, soft complexion, her big eyes. He kissed her.

She gave a little gasp. But there was no pulling away, none of the “how-dare-yous” which he had feared. As simply as a child she put her arms around his neck, kissed him, gave little whispers of contentment.

“You dear, you dear!” Embury whispered over and over again.

Then she drew away from him, turned her back, broke into a paroxysm of sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” Embury asked, genuinely perplexed.

He hadn’t quite understood her kissing him, though the kisses had been very pleasant. He understood her now least of all.

“I—I shouldn’t have come with you,” she sobbed. “Don’t you see—I—I—let you kiss me—I kissed you—I wanted to kiss you—I’m as much to blame as you—more. It’s wrong. I shouldn’t have come with you—now, you can’t respect me any more. After this you’ll think—”

“Now, now,” he soothed, “don’t carry on this way. Honest, it’s all right. It really is. Of course I respect you, honey. You’re the dearest girl I know. Why—I—love you!”

He stumbled over the word—he had never told a girl that he loved her, before. He was quite sincere, now. Marriage—of course that was different. He knew that. But this little girl—she was a dear—lovely, as she lay in his arms, soft and yielding, her lips against his. Still, now he wanted her to stop crying—he had made her cry—

“Why, dear, kisses aren’t anything, really. Lots of girls—You don’t know the ways of the world, that’s all. Now, cheer up—I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It—it was all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. Of course, when I came, you thought—and I—I wanted to kiss you. That’s the worst of it. Only—I did want to come—I never have anything. I’m—only nothing at all—and live in Gillen Row and you’re Marlin Embury—and now—I’ve kissed you.”

He drove her home. All the way home she sobbed softly. There was a light in the little cottage.

“Don’t drive me to the house,” she said. “Father’s home—it’s late—if he saw you—I don’t know what he’d do. I’ll be all right—if I go in alone. My mother will be waiting, too. She’ll keep him from being too angry—if I explain to her. I—I think she’ll understand.”

He let her out at the corner, pressing her hand as he told her good-bye.

“Now don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ll see you to-morrow, dear. A kiss is nothing to worry over, really it isn’t.”

She watched his car as he drove away, sent a tiny little wave of farewell to him as he looked back.

Her mother had gone to bed. Her father was playing cards with three cronies in the dining-room.

“That’s right, come trailing in at all hours—running around with some one else—got some one new?” he growled, as she passed them.

“That’s my business,” she answered curtly.

Her father might have detected a new tone in her voice if he hadn’t been too busy seeing that he got the best of his friends before they took advantage of him.

X

Embury worried about the kisses pretty much that night after he got home.

After all, Mamie was such a little thing and awfully young, not more than eighteen, probably, and not worldly, sophisticated, like the girls he went with. He oughtn’t to have—well, taken advantage of her. She had said she would never see him again—and then, after he had said he’d see her to-morrow, he had seen her wave farewell. If he didn’t see her—perhaps that would be best, after all. Still,—her kisses were sweet—she was a dear—he remembered the touch of her soft lips.

In the morning Embury still thought only of Mamie’s arms around his neck, her kisses. Of course he’d see her again. Why, he loved her. She was smarter, prettier, than Sophie. Sophie wouldn’t have cried had he kissed her—she would have thought he had proposed and put their engagement in the papers. She probably thought they were even now. Wouldn’t it be a joke on Sophie if he didn’t marry her, after all? His parents—why should they rule his life?

Of course, marrying Mamie was out of the question—still, with pretty clothes, she’d beat any girl in Millersville on looks and brains. Why, she had them beat already. Hadn’t she gone to High School until she had to stop to help out at home? Working every day, selling candy, luxuries—to others. Dear little thing—and now she was probably worrying because he had kissed her. Of course he’d see her—keep on seeing her....

At ten o’clock he peered into the windows of the Busy Bee. Mamie was not there. At eleven he looked in again. He went to the office and attempted to work. He looked into the shop windows both going to and coming from luncheon. He couldn’t keep his mind on what he was trying to do in the afternoon. Before three, he left for the day and went to the Busy Bee, looked in, went inside. It was almost a relief not to see Mamie—a relief, and yet it worried him.

A brown-haired girl he had never seen asked for his order. Embarrassed, he told her he wanted to speak to Miss Carpenter. What a fool he was. What else could he do?

Miss Carpenter hadn’t been down all day—no, she didn’t know what was the matter. Something she could do for him? Mechanically he ordered a box of candy.

He was glad he hadn’t found Mamie there. After last night he didn’t like to think of her clerking—waiting on people. He’d take her away—some place. Where? That was it—take her away. Still, he had to stay in Millersville—a town like Millersville! And she—why she cried when he kissed her—she was such a fragile, dainty little thing—like a lily—that was it—a lily, who had grown up in the muck of Gillen Row. Even too dainty for him. She wasn’t at the store. What was the matter? What if—

He drove to Gillen Row as rapidly as he could, stopped his car in front of the forlorn cottage. What if her father was at home? Well, he could manage him—must manage him.

He ran up the front walk, up the broken steps, knocked at the door—the bell seemed out of order. He waited. No answer. He couldn’t believe that the house was empty. He would wait. He stood on the porch, hesitating, wondering what to do. Then the door opened. It was Mamie.

She had on a blue suit, a plain little suit, with a white collar and a little black hat, turned up all around. He had never seen her except in summer things. How well she looked, with her bright hair showing below the hat-brim.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” she said. “You mustn’t come. Go away—I never—was going to see you again.”

“What’s the matter? You aren’t ill? You weren’t at the Busy Bee?”

“I’m not going back again, ever. I—I can’t stand it.”

“What are you going to do, Mamie?”

She looked so little and tragic.

“Last night father was waiting for me when I got home. You don’t know my father. He’s cruel, brutal, sometimes. He seemed to know, before I told him—that I’d been driving with you. So—I’m going away—I can’t stand—this—any more.”

“Going—where?”

He came inside, closed the door. What a mean little house it was.

“I don’t know. Away from this—any place. I’ve enough money to get to—to Giffordsville. I can find something to do there. I’ve got to have peace and contentment—something. And you must hate me—after I kissed you last night. You can’t care for me—respect me—and your respect was all I had.”

“My dear, my dear little girl. Why, I—I—”

His arms were around her again. But this time she did not meet his lips with hers. She dropped her head, struggled a little, then sighed.

“You see,” she said, “I can’t struggle against you. I must go away. I can’t stand it—any longer. This house, everything—and now—”

“Mamie.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

He forced her face upward.

“Do you love me?”

“Don’t ask me to say it. You—know. Please don’t be cruel to me. Let me go while I can.”

“Cruel to you? Mamie, I love you. You know that. You mustn’t go away from Millersville.”

“I must go. After the quarrel with father, I can’t stay here. That’s settled.”

“You mustn’t go.”

He repeated it over and over. He couldn’t let her go. Without her, Millersville would be worse than oil-soaked Oklahoma. He dared not imagine it, even.

“I’m going now—I’m all ready for travelling. How can anything stop me?” She pointed to a little packed bag.

In his arms she was fragrant, sweet. How could she get along—what could she do, alone in the world? Why—she was his girl—he could take care of her. She understood him—his family—he wouldn’t let his parents ruin his life.

Marry her, of course. Wasn’t she better, nobler than the rest of the girls—a cruel father who misunderstood her—alone in the world, really—little and sweet and dear. Going away? Why, if he married her he could keep her here. Of course.

“I’m glad you’re ready,” he said, “because you’re going with me.”

“What—what do you mean?”

She drew away.

“What could I mean? We—we love each other. We can drive right down to the court-house this minute. You—you won’t mind—marrying me, will you?”

She snuggled close to him and hid her head. From the sounds she made, he couldn’t tell whether she was sobbing or giggling. But it didn’t matter. Surely a girl could have her own method of accepting a proposal of marriage.

XI

The marriage has really turned out very well. Even Millersville admits it. After all, Mamie Embury proved herself an exceptional woman, and was quite able in every way to take her rightful place in society as Marlin Embury’s wife. If her parents seemed below the Millersville social level, no one dared dwell upon it. For young Mrs. Embury, under her soft and blonde exterior, has rather a sharp manner at times and, when necessary, can refer, in the pleasantest way, to things that have taken place in the past—and even the best Millersville families have their skeletons, forged cheques, little unnamed graves, jail sentences, things like that. So, after all, a worthless father can’t be held against a person, these days, all things considered.

Mamie is getting to be a bit of a snob, though, even her best friends think, because she objects to Millersville’s newest rich belonging to the “society” set and speaks about drawing more conservative lines. Her father was the black sheep of the family, it appears. The Carpenters are really an old Kentucky family and she often tells that her mother was one of the Virginia Prichards. Millersville knows that there is a great deal in heredity—that blood will tell—so her friends can understand her seeming snobbishness.

Mamie is a charming hostess, and prettier than ever, even if she has grown a bit rounder, and her husband is devoted to her. A poor girl who married the richest man in town—it’s beautiful—and it’s such a relief, with so many sordid things going on every day, to see real romance, a genuine love match, once in a while.