If that, indeed, was Uncle Stanley’s hope, he didn’t have to wait much longer.

The armistice was signed, you will remember, in the first week of November, 1918.  Two months later Mary showed Judge Cutler the financial statement for the preceding year.

“Another year like this,” said the judge, “and, barring strikes and accidents, Spencer & Son will be on its feet again, stronger than ever!  My dear girl,” he said, rising and holding out his hand, “I must congratulate you!”

Mary arose, too, her hand outstretched, but something in her manner caught the judge’s attention.

“What’s the matter, Mary?” he asked.  “Don’t you feel well?”

“Men—­women,” she said, unsteadily smiling and giving him her hand, “they ought to be—­now—­natural partners—­not—­not—­”

With a sigh she lurched forward and fell—­a tired little creature—­into his arms.

CHAPTER XX

Mary had a bad time of it the next few weeks.  More than once her face seemed turned toward the Valley of the Shadow.  But gradually health and strength returned, although it wasn’t until April that she was anything like herself again.

She liked to sit—­sometimes for hours at a time—­reading, thinking, dreaming—­and when she was strong enough to go outside she would walk among the flowers, and look at the birds and the budding trees, and draw deep breaths as she watched the glory of the sunset appearing and disappearing in the western sky.

Helen occasionally walked and sat with her—­but not often.  Helen’s time was being more and more taken up by the younger set at the Country Club.  She came home late, humming snatches of the latest dances and talking of the conquests she had made, telling Mary of the men who would dance with no one else, of the compliments they had paid her, of the things they had told her, of the competition to bring her home.  One night, it appears, they had an old-fashioned country party at the club, and Helen was in high glee at the number of letters she had received in the game of post office.

“You mean to say they all kissed you?” asked Mary.

“You bet they did!  Good and hard!  That’s what they were there for!”

Mary thought that over.

“It doesn’t sound nice to me, somehow,” she said at last.  “It sounds—­oh, I don’t know—­common.”

“That’s what the girls thought who didn’t get called,” laughed Helen.

She arranged her hair in front of the mirror, pulling it down over her forehead till it looked like a golden turban.  “Oh, who do you think was there tonight?” she suddenly interrupted herself.

Mary shook her head.

“Burdon Woodward—­as handsome as ever.  Yes, handsomer, I think, if he could be.  He asked after you.  I told him you were nearly better.”

“Then he must be down at the factory every day,” thought Mary.  But the thought moved her only a little.  Whether or not it was due to her illness, she seemed to have undergone a reaction in regard to the factory.  Everything was going on well, Judge Cutler sometimes told her.  As the men returned from service, the women were giving up their places.