t, but there was that in Mary's quiet eyes that shook my resolution.
There was an appeal there, and trust.

"I am glad, anyway, I am not so much above you, Mark," she said, now
laughing.

I gathered up my crutches and the letter. I gathered up my wits again.

"There's where I feel like Tim, indeed," I said.

"I don't think I should like this lofty Edith," the girl exclaimed.
"What a pompous word it is--Edith! Tim is ambitious. I suppose he
rolls that name over and over in his mind."

It seemed that Mary was unnecessarily sharp toward a young woman she
had never seen and of whom she had as yet heard nothing but good.
While for myself I felt a certain resentment at Tim for his praise of
this girl and the condescending references to my misfortune in never
having seen her like, I had for him a certain keen sympathy and hope
for his success. I had a certain sympathy for Edith, too, for a man in
love, if unrestrained in his praise, will make a plain, sensible,
motherly girl look like a frivolous fool. Perhaps in this case Edith
was the victim. I suggested this to Mary, and she laughed softly.

"Perhaps so," she said. "But I must admit it irritates me to see our
Tim lose his head over a stranger. I can only picture her as he
does--a superior being, who lives in Brooklyn, whose name is Edith, and
who wears her hair in a small knot on top of her head. Can you
conceive her smile, Mark, if she saw us now--if this fine Brooklyn girl
with her city ways dropped down here in Black Log?"

"That's all in Tim's letter," I cried. "Listen. 'She asked all about
my home and you. I told her of the place and of all the people, of
Mary and Captain. Last night I took over that picture of you in your
uniform, and I won't tell you all the nice things she said about you,
and----'"

"She's a flatterer," cried Mary.

"I am beginning to love her myself," said I. "But listen to Tim. 'She
told me she hoped to see Black Log some day, and to meet the soldier of
the valley. I said that I hoped she would, too, but I didn't tell her
that a hundred times a day, as I worked over the books in the office, I
vowed that soon I'd take her there myself.'"

"As Mrs. Tim," Mary added, for I was folding up the letter.

"As Mrs. Tim, evidently," said I. "Poor old Tim! It's a very bad
case."

"Poor old Tim!" said Mary.

She took up her needles and her work, and fell to knitting.

"I suppose they must be very rich--the Parkers, I mean."