the holidays, but--a sober second thought stopped her. Probably the
girls wouldn't want her candy then. Each of the boxes had been ordered
as a special Christmas offering for some relative with a well-known
sweet tooth. And Mary had a horror of debt, that was part of her
heritage from her grandfather Ware. It was his frequent remark that "who
goes a-borrowing goes a-sorrowing," and it lay heavy on the conscience
of every descendant of his who stepped aside even for a moment from the
path of his teachings. She felt that it would be dishonest to send Jack
a present that wasn't fully paid for, and yet the disappointment of not
being able to send it was so deep, that she could not keep the tears
back. They splashed down like rain into the kettle as she scraped away
at the scorched places on the bottom.

It was a long time before she went back to her room. Ethelinda looked up
curiously.

"Where's your candy?" she asked.

"Spoiled. It scorched and I had to throw it out." Her face was turned
away, under pretence of searching for a book, but her voice was subdued
and not altogether steady.

"Too bad," was the indifferent answer, and Ethelinda went on with her
lesson, but presently a faint sniff made her glance up to see that Mary
was not studying, only staring at her book with big tears dropping
quietly on the page. In all the weeks they had been together she had
never seen Mary in this mood before, and it seemed as strange that she
should be crying as that rain should drop from a cloudless sky.

The sight of Mary in trouble awakened a feeling that seldom came to the