and stayed home, and after a while people
said she and Sid had separated, though Frances said she would always
like Sid as a friend--not very serious reasons, these! Yet they had
proved enough.

Mary paused. Was she playing with fire? Ah, no, she told herself, it
was very different in her case. This was no imaginary case of "neglect"
or "incompatibility." There was the living trouble,--Mamma. And even if
tonight she conceded this point to George, and Mamma was banished,
sooner or later resentment, bitter and uncontrollable, would rise
again, she knew, in her heart. No. She would go. George might do the
yielding.

Once or twice tears threatened her calm. But it was only necessary to
remind herself of what George had said to dry her eyes into angry
brilliance again. Too late now for tears.

At five o'clock the trunk was packed, but Mamma had not yet arrived.
There remained merely to wait for her, and to start with her for Beach
Meadow. Mary's heart was beating fast now, but it was less with regret
than with a nervous fear that something would delay her now. She turned
the key in the trunk lock and straightened up with the sudden
realization that her back was aching.

For a moment she stood, undecided, in the centre of her room. Should
she leave a little note for George, "on his pincushion," or simply ask
Lizzie to say that she had gone to Beach Meadow? He would not follow
her there, she knew; George understood her. He knew of how little use
bullying or coaxing would be. There would be no scenes. She would be
allowed to settle down to an existence that would be happy for Mamma,
good for the children, restful--free from distressing strain--for Mary
herself.

With a curious freedom from emotion of any sort, she selected a hat,
and laid her gloves beside it on the bed. Just then the front door,
below her, opened to admit the noise of hurried feet and of joyous
laughter. Several voices were talking at once. Mary, to whom the group
was still invisible, recognized one of these as belonging to Mamma. As
she went downstairs, she had only time for one apprehensive thrill,
before Mamma herself ran about the curve of the stairway, and flung
herself into Mary's arms.

Mamma was dressed in corn-colored silk, over which an exquisite wrap of
the same shade fell in rich folds. Her hat was a creation of pale
yellow plumes and hydrangeas, her silk stockings and little boots
corn-colored. She dragged the bewildered Mary down the sta