discouraged, still weak. Despite Margaret's bravery, they both felt
the position a strained and uncomfortable one. As day after day
proved his utter unfitness for a fresh business start in the cruel,
jarring competition of the big city, John's spirits nagged
pitifully. He hated the boarding-house.

"It's only the bridge that takes us over the river," his wife
reminded him.

But when a little factory in a little town, half a day's journey
away, offered John a manager's position, at a salary that made them
both smile, she let him accept it without a murmur.

Her courage lasted until he was on the train, travelling toward the
new town and the new position. But as she walked back to her own
business, a sort of nausea seized her. The big, heroic fight was
over; John's life was saved, and the debt reduced to a reasonable
burden. But the deadly monotony was ahead, the drudgery of days and
days of hateful labor, the struggle--for what? When could they ever
take their place again in the world that they knew? Who could ever
work up again from debts like these? Would John always be the weak,
helpless convalescent, or would he go back to the old type, the
bored, silent man of clubs and business?

Margaret turned a grimy corner, and was joined by one of her
boarders, a cheerful little army wife.

"Well, we'll miss Mr. Kirby, I'm sure," said little Mrs. Camp, as
they mounted the steps. "And by the way, Mrs. Kirby, you won't mind
if I ask if we mayn't just now and then have some of the new towels