en 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.

Her courage lasted until he was on the train, travelling toward the new
town and the new position. But as she walked back to her own business,
a sort of nausea seized her. The big, heroic fight was over; John's
life was saved, and the debt reduced to a reasonable burden. But the
deadly monotony was ahead, the drudgery of days and days of hateful
labor, the struggle--for what? When could they ever take their place
again in the world that they knew? Who could ever work up again from
debts like these? Would John always be the weak, helpless convalescent,
or would he go back to the old type, the bored, silent man of clubs and
business?

Margaret turned a grimy corner, and was joined by o