than
her usual courage, "and if I wouldn't mind the ashes I don't see why you
should."

"We can't afford it."

"Martin, I've given in to you on everything else," she asserted firmly.
"I'm not going to give this up. I'll pay for it out of my own money."

"What do you mean 'out of my own money'?" he asked sternly. "I told
Osborne we'd run one account. If what is mine is going to be yours, what
is yours is going to be mine. I'd think your own sense of fairness would
tell you that."

As a matter of fact, Martin had no intention of ever touching Rose's
little capital, but he had made up his mind to direct the spending
of its income. He would keep her from putting it into just such
foolishnesses as this fireplace. But Rose, listening, saw the last of
her independence going. She felt tricked, outraged. During the years she
had been at the head of her father's household, she had regulated the
family budget and, no matter how small it had happened to be, she always
had contrived to have a surplus. This notion of Martin's that he, and he
alone, should decide upon expenditures was ridiculous. She told him so
and in spite of himself, he was impressed.

"All right," he said calmly. "You can do all the buying for the house.
Write a check with my name and sign your own initials. Get what you
think we need. But there isn't going to be any fireplace. You can just
set that down."

Voice, eyes, the line of his chin, all told Rose that he would not
yield. Nothing could be gained from a quarrel except deeper ill feeling.
With a supreme effort of will she obeyed the dictates of common sense
and ended the argument abruptly.

But, for months after she was settled in the new little house, her eye
never fell on the space where the fireplace should have been without a
bitter feeling of revolt sweeping over her. She never carried a heavy
bucket in from the pump without thinking cynically of Martin's promises
of running water. As she swept the dust out of her front and back doors
to narrow steps, she remembered the spacious porches that were to have
been; and as she wiped the floors she had painted herself, and polished
her pine furniture, she was taunted by memories of the smooth boards
and the golden oak to which she had once looked forward so happily. This
resentment was seldom expressed, but its flame scorched her soul.

Her work increased steadily. She did not object to this; it kept her
from thinking and brooding; it helped her to