And the lean and lank sinner took it, with something beginning to glow
in the back of his eyes.

"I reckon I ain't got on to your scheme of salvation," he remarked
shrewdly, "but somehow I have a feelin' that I ain't goin' to git
through those days of plantin' crops with you without your plantin'
somethin' in me that's bound to grow."

In such ways did Roger meet men, women and children, reaching out from
his loneliness to their need, giving much and receiving more.

It was on Tuesday morning that he came back finally to the house which
seemed empty because of Cousin Patty's absence. The little lady was
still in Washington, whence she had written hurried notes, promising
more when the rush was over.

At the gate he met the rural carrier, who gave him the letters. There
was one on top from Mary Ballard.

Roger tore it open and read it, as he walked toward the house. It
contained only a scribbled line--but it set his pulses bounding.

"DEAR ROGER POOLE:

"I want to be friends again. Such friends as we were in the Tower
Rooms. I know I don't deserve it--but--please.

"MARY BALLARD."

It seemed to him, as he finished it that all the world was singing, not
merely the mocking-birds in the magnolias, but the whole incomparable
chorus of the universe. It seemed an astounding thing that she should
have written thus to him. He had so adjusted himself to the fact of
repeated disappointment, repeated failure, that he found it hard to
believe that such happiness could be his. Yet she had written it; that
she wanted to be--his friend.

At first his thoughts did not fly beyond friendship. But as he sat
down on the porch steps to think it over he began, for the first time
since he had known her, to dream of a life in which she should be more
to him than friend.

And why not? Why shouldn't he dream? Mary was not like other women.
She looked above and beyond the little things. Might not a man offer
her that which was finer than gold, greater than material success?
Might not a man offer her a life which had to do with life and
love--might he not share with her this opportunity to make this garden
in the sand-hills bloom?

And now, while the mocking-birds sang madly, Roger Poole saw Mary--here
beside him on the porch on a morning like this, with the lilacs waving
perfumed plumes of mauve and white, with the birds flashing in blue and
scarlet and gold from pine to magnolia, and from magnolia back to
pine--