ould be embarrassing to face reason
in the open. After three or four attempts to arouse her mother to some
sort of action, Rosie had to give up. She felt as keenly as ever that
George was being basely betrayed, but she saw no way to protect him. She
had not written to him since he left, but she wrote every week to his
mother on the pretext that Mrs. Riley was deeply interested in Geraldine
and must be kept informed of Geraldine's growth and health. Rosie always
put in a sentence about Ellen: "Ellen's very busy but very well," or
"Ellen's hours are much longer now than they used to be and she hasn't
so very much time to herself, but she likes millinery, so it's all
right,"--always something that would assure George of Ellen's well-being
and excuse, if necessary, her silence. Rosie hated herself for thus
apparently shielding Ellen but, in her anxiety to spare George, she
would have gone to almost any length.

A sort of family pride kept her from confiding her worries to Janet
McFadden. Soon after George's departure she had remarked to Janet: "You
oughtn't to be surprised because you know the kind of girl Ellen is.
She's just got to amuse herself. Besides, you can't exactly blame her
because poor Jarge'd want her to have a good time." This attitude had
not in the least deceived Janet, but Janet was too tactful to question
it.

The reasons for not talking to Janet did not apply to Danny Agin, who,
being old and of another generation, was philosophical rather than
personal and had long since mastered the art of forgetting confidences
when forgetting was more graceful than remembering. So at last Rosie
opened her heart to Danny.

"Now take an engaged girl, Danny."

Rosie paused and Danny, nodding his head, said: "For instance, a girl
like Ellen."

Rosie was glad enough to be definite. "I don't mind telling you, Danny,
that it's Ellen I'm talking about. I just don't know what to do about it
and maybe you'll be able to help me."

Danny listened carefully while Rosie slowly unfolded her story. "And,
Danny," she said, as she reached the present in her narrative, "that St.
Louis fellow's just dead gone on her--that's all there is about it. He's
sending her picture postcards every day or every other day. I can't help
knowing because they come to the house. I suppose he doesn't like to
send them to the shop where the other girls would see them. He used to
sign the postcards with his full name but now he only signs 'Harry.'
N