No; it wasn’t the big things which ultimately took the bloom from Mary’s cheeks and the smile from her eyes.

It was the small things that worried her—­things so trifling in themselves that it would sound foolish to mention them—­the daily nagging details, the gathering load of responsibility upon her shoulders, the indifference which she had to dispel, the inertia that had to be overcome, the ruffled feelings to be soothed, the squabbles to be settled, the hidden hostilities which she had to contend against in her own office—­and yet pretend she never noticed them.

Indeed, if it hadn’t been for the recompensing features, Mary’s enthusiasm would probably have become chilled by experience, and dreams have come to nothing.  But now and then she seemed to sense in the factory a gathering impetus of efficient organization, the human gears working smoothly for a time, the whole machine functioning with that beauty of precision which is the dream of every executive.

That always helped Mary whenever it happened.

And the second thing which kept her going was to see the evidences of prosperity and contentment which the women on the payroll began to show—­their new clothes and shoes—­the hopeful confidence of their smiles—­the frequency with which the furniture dealers’ wagons were seen in the streets around the factory, the sounds of pianos and phonographs in the evening and, better than all, the fact that on pay day at Spencer & Sons, the New Bethel Savings Bank stayed open till half past nine at night—­and didn’t stay open for nothing!

“If things could only keep going like this when the war ends, too,” breathed Mary one day. “...I’m sure there must be some way ... some way....”

For the second time in her life (as you will presently see) she was like a blind-folded player with arms outstretched, groping for her destiny and missing it by a hair.

“Still,” she thought, “when the men come back, I suppose most of the women will have to go.  Of course, the men must have their places back, but you’d think there was some way ... some way....”

In fancy she saw the women going back to the kitchens, back to the old toil from which they had escaped.

“It’s silly, of course,” she thoughtfully added, “and wicked, too, to say that men and women are natural enemies.  But—­the way some of the men act—­you’d almost think they believed it....”

She thought of Uncle Stanley and has son.  At his own request, Burdon had been transferred to the New York office and Mary seldom saw him, but something told her that he would never forgive her for the morning when he had to go home—­“with a sort of a headache.”

“And Uncle Stanley, too,” she thought, her lip quivering as a wave of loneliness swept over her and left her with a feeling of emptiness.  “If I were a man, he wouldn’t dare to act as he does.  But because I’m a girl, I can almost see him hoping that something will happen to me—­”