Her attitude toward him was irreproachable.  She was kinder, indeed, than she had been in the days when he had tried to force his claims upon her.  She seemed to be trying by her friendliness to make up for something which she had withdrawn from him, and he knew that nothing could ever make up.

So it came about that he spent less and less of his time with her, and more and more with Leila—­Leila who needed comforting, and who welcomed him with such sweet and clinging dependence—­Leila who hung upon his advice, Leila who, divining his hurt, strove by her sweet sympathy to help him.

Thus they came in due time to London.  And when Leila and her father left for the German baths, Porter went with them.

It was when he said “Good-bye” to Mary that his voice broke.

“Dear Contrary Mary,” he said, “the old name still fits you.  You never could, and you never would, and now you never will.”

Followed for Mary quiet days with Constance and the beautiful baby, days in which the sisters were knit together by the bonds of mutual grief.  The little Mary-Constance was a wonderful comfort to both of them; unconscious of sadness, she gurgled and crowed and beamed, winning them from sorrowful thoughts by her blandishments, making herself the center of things, so that, at last, all their little world seemed to revolve about her.

And always in these quiet days, Mary looked for a letter from across the high seas, and at last it came in a blue envelope.

It arrived one morning when she was at breakfast with Constance and Gordon.  Handed to her with other letters, she left it unopened and laid it beside her plate.

Gordon finished his breakfast, kissed his wife, and went away.  Constance, looking over her mail, read bits of news to Mary.  Mary, in return, read bits of news to Constance.  But the blue envelope by her plate lay untouched, until, catching her sister’s eye, she flushed.

“Constance,” she said, “it is from Roger Poole.”

“Oh, Mary, and was that why Porter went away?”

“Yes.”  It came almost defiantly.

For a moment the young matron hesitated, then she held out her arms.  “Dearest girl,” she said, “we want you to be happy.”

Mary, with eyes shining, came straight to that loving embrace.

“I am going to be happy,” she said, almost breathlessly, “and perhaps my way of being happy won’t be yours, Con, darling.  But what difference does it make, so long as we are both—­happy?”

The letter, read at last in the shelter of her own room, was not long.

Among the Pines.

Even now I can’t quite believe that your letter is true—­I have read it and reread it—­again and again, reading into it each time new meanings, new hope.  And to-night it lies on my desk, a precious document, tempting me to say things which perhaps I should not say—­tempting me to plead for that which perhaps I should not ask.