She was not feeling particularly well. Her head did ache and her conscience troubled her the least little bit, notwithstanding she had not the faintest intention of surrender. With hot cheeks and cold hands she lay still for a long time until the noises of the other girls retiring had quieted down and the big house was silent. Then Polly suddenly sat up in bed. A moment later she had crawled out on the floor and lighted a candle by her writing desk. The electric lights had been turned off for the night. But even in the pitch darkness Polly would still have composed her letter. For an idea had at last come to her. And if only she could get just one person to accede to it her way would be plain. The one person might be difficult. Polly was perfectly aware of this, but then she had great faith in her own powers of persuasion. CHAPTER VI ESTHER'S ROOM Just above the small alcohol lamp the teakettle was beginning to sing. On a table near-by were teacups and saucers, with one plate of sandwiches covered over with a small napkin, and another of cookies. Several times a tall girl glanced at the clock and then walked across the room to take the kettle off the stove, only to place it back again the next instant. Then at last she seated herself by an open piano. There was very little furniture in the room except the piano, a small cot and the table. Yet it had an atmosphere of home and comfort, such as some persons are able to give to a tent in a desert. And standing in a row at the back of the same tea table were three candles in ten-cent-store glass candlesticks, waiting to be lighted. The afternoon was a dismal one, with occasional flurries of snow; so that when the proper time came for the candle-lighting, the flames would not be ungrateful. But in order to make the waiting seem less long the girl was evidently trying to distract her attention by practicing her music. Several times she sang over the scales. And then, dissatisfied with her own work, repeated them until finally her voice rose with unusual resonance and power. Then, after another slight pause, she drifted almost unconsciously into the words of a song: "Burn, fire, burn! Flicker, flicker, flame! Whose hand above this blaze is lifted Shall be with magic touch engifted, To warm the hearts of lonely mortals Who stand without their open portals. The torch shall draw them to the fire Higher, higher By desire. Whoso shall stand by this hearthstone, Flame-fanned, Shall never, never stand alone; Whose house is dark and bare and cold, Whose house is cold, This is his own. Flicker, flicker, flicker, flame; Burn, fire burn!" She had not heard the door open softly nor even noticed the figure that crept softly into the small room. But now a pair of gloved hands were clasped eagerly together and an enthusiastic voice said: