usly, fell forward into her weighty walk.

"I make no promise, sir-r-r!" said she, as she veered in passing.

But still, human psychology being what it is, and woman's curiosity
what it also is, and Mrs. Davidson being after all woman, that evening
when Wid Gardner passed out to his gate, he found pinned to the
fastening stick an envelope which he opened curiously. He spelled out
the words:

"Wanted: A Wife. A well-to-do and chivalrous rancher of abundant means
and large holdings in a Western State wishes to correspond with a
respectable young woman who will be willing to appreciate a good home
and loving care. Object--matrimony."

Wid Gardner read this once, and he read it twice. "Good God A'mighty!"
said he to himself. "Sim Gage!"

He turned back to his cabin, and managed to find a corroded pen and the
part of a bottle of thickened ink. With much labor he signed to the
text of his enclosure two initials, and added his own post office route
box for forwarding of any possible replies. Then he addressed a dirty
envelope to the street number of the eastern city which appeared on the
page of his matrimonial journal. Even he managed to fish out a curled
stamp from somewhere in the wall pocket. Then he sat down and looked
out the door over the willow bushes shivering in the evening air.

"'Chi_val_erous!'" said he. "'Well-to-do! A good home--and loving
care!' If that can be put acrosst with any woman in the whole wide
world, I'll have faith again in prospectin'!"

CHAPTER III

FIFTY-FIFTY

It was late fall or early winter in the city of Cleveland. An icy
wind, steel-tipped, came in from the frozen shores of Lake Erie,
piercing the streets, dark with soot and fog commingled. It was
evening, and the walks were covered with crowded and hurrying human
beings seeking their own homes--men done with their office labors,
young women from factories and shops. These bent against the bitter
wind, some apathetically, some stoutly, some with the vigor of youth,
yet others with the slow gait of approaching age.

Mary Warren and her room-mate, Annie Squires, met at a certain street
corner, as was their daily wont; the former coming from her place in
one of the great department stores, the other from her work in a
factory six blocks up the street.

"'Lo, Mollie," said Annie; and her friend smiled, as she always did at
their chill corner rendezvous. They found some sort of standing room
together in a c