had driven her into a newspaper office, and at
that very moment, there lay on her desk, like a whisper from Fate, the
written offer from the rival paper to buy her out for fifteen hundred
dollars, giving herself a position on the consolidated staff. She had
been pondering over this proposal when Martin interrupted her.

It wasn't as if she were younger or likely to start somewhere else.
She would live out her life in Fallon, that she knew. There was little
chance of her meeting new men, and those established enough to make
marriage with them desirable were already married. Candidly, she
admitted that if she turned Martin Wade down now, she might never have
another such opportunity. If only she could feel that he cared for
her--loved her. But wasn't the fact that he was asking her to be his
wife proof of that? It was very strange. She had never suspected that
Martin had ever felt drawn to her. With a sigh she pressed her large,
capable hands to her heart. Its deep piercing ache brought tears to her
eyes. She felt, bitterly, that she was being cheated of too much that
was sweet and precious--it was all wrong--she would be making a mistake.
For a moment, she was overwhelmed. Then the practical common sense that
had been instilled into her from her earliest consciousness, even as it
had been instilled into Martin, reasserted itself. After all, perhaps he
was right--the busy people were the happy people. Many couples who began
marriage madly in love ended in the divorce courts. Martin was kind and
it would be wonderful to have the home he had described. She imagined
herself mistress of it, thrilled with the warm hospitality she would
radiate, entertained already at missionary meetings and at club. At
least, she would be less lonely. It would be a fuller life than now.
What was she getting, really getting, alone, out of this world? She and
Martin would be good partners. Poor boy! What a long, hard, cheerless
existence he had led. Tenderness welled in her heart and stilled its
pain. Perhaps his emotions were far deeper than he could express in
words. His way was to plan for her comfort. Wasn't there something big
about his simple cards-on-the-table wooing? And he had called her his
rose, his Rose of Sharon. The new house was to be the garden in which
she should blossom. To be sure, he had said it all awkwardly, but Rose,
who was devout, knew the stately Song of Solomon and as she recalled the
magnificent outburst of passion she