"I could show you an awakened people. I could show you a community throwing off the shackles of idleness and ignorance. I could show you men once tied to old traditions, meeting with eagerness the new ideals. There is nothing in the world more wonderful than such an awakening, Bigelow. But one must have the Vision to grasp it. And faith to believe it. It is the dreamers, thank God, who see beyond to-day into to-morrow. I haven't wealth or position to offer Mary, but I can offer her a world which needs her. And if I know her, as I think I do, she will care more for my world than for yours." He did not raise his voice, but Porter felt the force of his restrained eloquence, as he knew Mary would feel it if it were applied to her. And now he shot his poisoned dart. "At first, perhaps. But when it came to building a home, there'd be always the stigma of your past, and she's a proud little thing, Poole." Roger winced. "My past is buried. It is my future of which we must speak." "You can't bury a past. You haven't even a pulpit to preach from." Roger pushed back his chair. "I am tempted to wish," his voice was grim, "that we were not quite so civilized, not quite so modern. Pistols or swords would seem an easier way than this." "I'm fighting for Mary. You've got to let go. None of her friends want it--Gordon would never consent." It seemed to Roger that all the whispers which had assailed him in the days of long ago were rushing back upon him in a roaring wave of sound. He rose, white and shaken. "Do you call it victory when one man stabs another through the heart? Well, if this is your victory, Bigelow--you are welcome to it." CHAPTER XXV _In Which Mary Bids Farewell to the Old Life; and in Which She Finds Happiness on the High Seas._ Contrary Mary was Contrary Mary no longer. Since Roger had gone, taking Cousin Patty with him--gone without the word to her for which she had waited, she had submitted to Gordon's plans for her, and to Aunt Frances' and Porter's execution of them. Only to Grace did she show any signs of her old rebellion. "Did you ever think that I should be beaten, Grace?" she said, pitifully. "Is that the way with all women? Do we reach out for so much, and then take what we can get?" Grace pondered. "Things tie us down, but we don't have to stay tied--and I am beginning to see a way out for myself, Mary." She told of her talk with Roger and of her own strenuous desire to help; but she did not tell what she had said to him at the last. There was something here which she could not understand. Mary persistently refused to talk about him. Even now she shifted the topic. "I don't want to strive," she said, "not even for the sake of others. I want to rest for a thousand years--and sleep for the next thousand." And this from Mary, buoyant, vivid Mary, with her almost boyish strength and energy.