of the table laid out with her portfolio, books and work-basket.  She had been not only just but generous in the division of property.  She had left more than half the drawer space and closet hooks for the use of the unknown Ethelinda; the most comfortable chair, and the best lighted end of the table.  That was because she herself had had first choice in the matter of bed and dressing table, and having seized upon the most desirable from her point of view, felt that she owed the other girl some reparation.  Because they had been Lloyd’s she wanted them so strongly that she was ready to sacrifice everything else in the room for them, or even fight for their possession if necessary.

By the time all was in order, the tall Lombardy poplars were throwing long shadows on the green sward of the terraces, and from the window she could see the garden, lying so sweet and still in the drowse of the late afternoon that she longed to be down in it.  She hurried to change the rumpled shirt-waist in which she had finished her journey and done her unpacking, for a fresh white dress.  It was proof that the room was exerting some influence to make her like her model, that even in her haste she made a careful toilet.  Remembering how dainty and thorough-going Lloyd always was in her dressing, she scrubbed away until every vestige of travel-stain was gone.  All fresh and rosy, down to her immaculate finger-tips, she scanned herself in the mirror, from the carefully tied bow in her hair to the carefully tied bows on her slippers, and nodded approvingly.  She could stand inspection now from the whole row of them—­all those girls on the other side of the looking-glass, who somehow seemed so near and real to her.

As she turned away from the mirror, her glance rested on the little group of home pictures she had put up over her bed.  The tents and tiny two-roomed cottage that they called Ware’s Wigwam looked small and cramped compared to this great Hall with its wide corridors and spacious rooms.  It had always seemed to Mary that she was born to live in kings’ houses, she so enjoyed luxurious surroundings, but a homesick pang seized her now, as she looked down on the picture and remembered that she could never go back to it.

“It doesn’t seem as if I have any home now,” she sighed, “for I didn’t stay long enough in the new place at Lone-Rock to get used to it.  I know I shall always love the Wigwam best, and when I think of it standing empty or maybe turned over to strangers, it makes me feel as if one of my best friends had died.  I’m glad we took so many pictures of it, and that I kept a record of all the good times we had there.  Oh, that reminds me!  There’s one more thing I must do before sundown—­bring my diary up to date.  I haven’t written a line in it for six weeks.”

The out-doors was too alluring to waste another moment in the house, however, so gathering up her diary and fountain-pen, she went down stairs and out into the garden, feeling as the gate swung to behind her that she was stepping into an old, old English garden belonging to some ducal estate.  Coming as she did straight from the edge of the desert, with its burning stretches of sand, its cactus and greasewood, its bare red buttes and lank rows of cotton-wood trees, this Eden of green and bloom had a double charm for her.