She came to think of it as her own abiding place. Often when too
tired for long wings of fancy she would just sink down in the deep,
cool shadows of the pines, beside the little river which one knew so
well was the gift of distant snows. It rested her most of all; it
quieted her.

She smiled sometimes to think how no one in the office knew about
it, wondered what they would think if they knew. Often she would
find someone in the office looking at her strangely. She used to
wonder about it a little.

And then one day Mr. Osborne sent for her to come into his office.
He acted so queerly. As she came in and sat down near his desk he
swung his chair around and sat there with his back to her. After
that he got up and walked to the window.

The head stenographer had complained of her cough. She said she did
not think it right either to the girl or to the rest of them for her
to be there. She said she hated to speak of it, but could not stand
it any longer. That had been the week before, and ever since he had
been putting it off. But now he could put it off no longer; the head
stenographer was valuable, and besides he knew that she was right.

And so he told her--this was all he could think of just then--that
they were contemplating some changes in the office, and for a time
would have less desk room. If he sent her machine to her home, would
she be willing to do her work there for a while? Hers was the kind
of work that could be done at home.

She was sorry, for she wondered if she could find a place in her