As she drove off, Mary Cary waved to her, then turned and stood a
moment in the wide, cool hall, looking first in the library on the
right, the dining-room on the left, at the broad, winding staircase in
front, and through the open door at the end to the orchard, which in the
distance could be glimpsed, and her hands clasped as if to press
closely the happiness that filled her.

It was hers, all hers. The dream of her starved little heart, when, as a
child, she had lived in the Yorkburg Orphan Asylum, had come true. She
had a home of her own.

"And I didn't have to take a husband to get it," she said, nodding her
head. "That's such a satisfaction."

She dropped in the big chintz-covered chair and, with elbows on its
arms and finger-tips pressed to cheeks, surveyed critically the size and
shape and furnishings of the rooms, then sighed in happy content.

"It's such a pity so many people still think a home /must/ have a
man in it. If a man belongs to you and is nice he might make the home
nicer, but"--she shook her head--"Mrs. McDougal says there are times
when a husband is a great trial. I haven't any brothers or a father,
and I don't want to risk a trial yet. The reason most homes need men
is because men mean money, I suppose. You can't sneeze without needing
money. And yet"--she looked around--"everything in this house didn't
cost as much as the rug Mrs. Maxwell has on her drawing-room floor. I
don't wonder John loathes his house. You can't really see the price-tags
on the things in it, but you're certain you could find them if you had
the chance to look. I wonder where John's letter is?" She got up and