“Well, she just came here as a regular guest at first,” said Mrs. Kippam, with a cautious glance at the door.  “I was running it then; but I’d got into awful debt, and my little boy was sick, and I got to telling her my worries.  Well, she was looking for something to do—­a companion or private secretary position—­but she didn’t find it, and she had so many good ideas about this house, and helped me out so, just talking things over, that finally I asked her if she wouldn’t be my partner.  And she was glad to; she was just about worried to death by that time.”

“I thought Mrs. Kirby had property—­investments in her own name?” John said.

“Oh, she did, but she put everything right back into the firm,” said Mrs. Kippam.  “Lots of her old friends went back on her for doing it,” the little woman went on, in a burst of loyal anger.  “However,” she added, very much enjoying her listener’s close attention, “I declare my luck seemed to change the day she took hold!  First thing was that her friends, and a lot that weren’t her friends, came here out of curiosity, and that advertised the place.  Then she slaves day and night, goes right into the kitchen herself and watches things; and she has such a way with the help—­she knows how to manage them.  And the result is that we’ve got the house packed for next winter, and we’ll have as many as thirty people here all summer long.  I feel like another person, “the tears suddenly brimmed her weak, kind eyes, and she fumbled with her handkerchief.  “You’ll think I’m crazy running on this way!” said little Mrs. Kippam, “but everything has gone so good.  My Lesty is much better, and as things are now I can get him into the country next year; and I feel like I owed it all to Margaret Kirby!”

John tried to speak, but the room was wheeling about him.  As he raised his trembling hand to his eyes, a shadow fell across the doorway, and Margaret came in.  Tired, shabby, laden with bundles, she stood blinking at him a moment; and then, with a sudden cry of tenderness and pity, she was on her knees by his side.

“Margaret!  Margaret!” he whispered.  “What have you done?”

She did not answer, but gathered him close in her strong arms, and they kissed each other with wet eyes.

III

A few weeks later John came to the boarding-house, nervous, discouraged, still weak.  Despite Margaret’s bravery, they both felt the position a strained and uncomfortable one.  As day after day proved his utter unfitness for a fresh business start in the cruel, jarring competition of the big city, John’s spirits nagged pitifully.  He hated the boarding-house.

“It’s only the bridge that takes us over the river,” his wife reminded him.

But when a little factory in a little town, half a day’s journey away, offered John a manager’s position, at a salary that made them both smile, she let him accept it without a murmur.