until Wednesday night were very long. She hummed over the fancy
starch that flew under the iron at an astounding rate.

"I can't see how you do it," Mary admired. "You'll make thirteen
or fourteen this week at that rate."

Saxon laughed, and in the steam from the iron she saw dancing
golden letters that spelled WEDNESDAY.

"What do you think of Billy?" Mary asked.

"I like him," was the frank answer.

"Well, don't let it go farther than that."

"I will if I want to," Saxon retorted gaily.

"Better not," came the warning. "You'll only make trouble for
yourself. He ain't marryin'. Many a girl's found that out. They
just throw themselves at his head, too."

"I'm not going to throw myself at him, or any other man."

"Just thought I'd tell you," Mary concluded. "A word to the
wise."

Saxon had become grave.

"He's not . . . not . . ." she began, than looked the
significance of the question she could not complete.