"But they both like me. In fact, Mr. Orchard suggested that I marry
him so old Nesbitt would have to stop roaring at me, but I tell him
honestly that of the two evils I prefer the roaring.

"No, Carol, I am not counting on marriage in my scheme of life. Not
yet. Sometimes I think perhaps I do not believe in it. It doesn't
work out right. There is always something wrong somewhere. Look at
Prudence and Jerry,--devoted to each other as ever, but Jerry's
business takes him out among men and women, into the life of the city.
And Prudence's business keeps her at home with the children. He's out,
and she's in, and the only time they have to love each other is in the
evening,--and then Jerry has clubs and meetings, and Prudence is always
sleepy. Look at Fairy and Gene. He is always at the drug store, and
Fairy has nothing but parties and clubs and silly things like that to
think about,--a big, grand girl like Fairy. And she is always looking
covetously at other women's babies and visiting orphans' homes to see
if she can find one she wants to adopt, because she hasn't one of her
own. Always that sorrow behind the twinkle in her eyes! If she hadn't
married, she wouldn't want a baby. Take Larkie and Jim. Always Larkie
was healthy at home, strong, and full of life. But since little Violet
came, Lark is pale and weak, and has no strength at all. Aunt Grace is
staying with her now. Why, I can't look at dear old Larkie without
half crying.

"Take even you, my precious Carol, perfectly happy, oh, of course, but
all your originality, your uniqueness, the very you-ness of you, will
be absorbed in a round of missionary meetings, and prayer-meetings, and
choir practises, and Sunday-school classes. The hard routine, my dear,
will take the sparkle from you, and give you a sweet, but un-Carol-like
precision and method. Oh, yes, you are happy, but thank you, dear, I
think I'll keep my Self and do my work, and--be an old maid.

"Mr. Orchard offers himself as an alternative to the roars every now
and then, and I expound this philosophy of mine in answer. He shouts
with laughter at it. He says it is so, so like a baby in business. He
reminds me of the time when gray hairs and crow's-feet will mar my
serenity, and when solitary old age will take the lightness from my
step. But I've never noticed that husbands have a way of banishing
gray hairs and crow's-feet and feeble knees, have you? Babies are
nice, of course, but