"Listen, Mary," she said, coming over and putting both her broken hands on her friend's shoulders. "God knows, if I could keep us both going I would, but I don't make money enough for myself, hardly, let alone you. You don't belong where you've been--you wouldn't, even if you was well and fit, which you ain't. Mollie, Mollie, my dear, what is there ahead for you? We _got_ to do some thinking. It's up to us right now. You're too good for the lake or the poor farm--or--why, you _belong_ in a home. Keep house? I wish't I knew as much as you do about that." "I'll tell you," she resumed suddenly. "I'll tell you what let's do! A stenographer down at our office does all these letters for me--she's a bear, come to correspondence like that. Now, I'll have her get out a letter from you to him that will sort of bring this thing to a head one way or the other. We'll say that you can't think of going out there to marry a man sight-unseen----" "No," said Mary Warren. "The lake, first." She was wringing her hands, her cheeks hot. "But now, as a housekeeper----" After a long and perturbed silence Annie spoke again. "That's the real live idea, Sis! That's the dope! You might _think_ of going out there as a housekeeper, just to see how things _looked_--just so that you could look things _over_, couldn't you? You wouldn't marry any man in a hurry. You could say you'd only do your best as a sincere, honest woman--why, I have to tell that stenographer what to write, all the time. She's sloppy." "But _look_ at me, Annie--I wouldn't be worth anything as a housekeeper." Mary Warren was arguing! "As to marrying that way----" --"Letter'll say you're not asking any pay at all. You don't promise anything. You don't ask _him_ to promise anything. You don't want any wages. You don't let him pay your railroad fare out--not at all! You ain't taking any chances nor asking him to take any chances,--unless she falls in love with you for fair. Which I wouldn't wonder if he did. You're a sweet girl, Mollie. Put fifteen pounds on you, and you'd be a honey. You are anyway. Men always look at you--it's your figure, part, maybe. And you're so good--and you're a _lady_, Sis. And if I----" "Tell him," said Mary Warren suddenly, pulling herself together with the extremest effort of will and in the suddenest and sharpest decision she had ever known in all her life, "tell him I'm square! Tell him I'll be honest all the time--all the time!" "As though you could be anything else, you poor dear!" said Annie Squires, coming over and throwing a strong arm about Mary Warren's neck, as though they both had done nothing but agree about this after a dozen conversations. And then she wept, for she knew what Mary Warren's surrender had cost. "And game! Game and square both, you sweet thing," sobbed Annie Squires. "Give me fifteen pounds on you," she wept, dabbing at her own eyes, "and I wouldn't risk Charlie near you,--not a minute!" CHAPTER VII