Patrick Conroy had come from Sharon, Illinois, to perform the
thankless task of starting a weekly newspaper in a town already
undernourishing one. By sheer stubbornness he had at last
established it. Twelve hundred subscribers, their little printing
jobs, advertisers who bought liberal portions of space at ten
cents an inch--all had enabled him to give his children a living
that was a shade better than an existence. He had died less than
a year ago, and Martin, like the rest of the community, had
supposed the Fallon Independent would be sold or suspended.
Instead, as quietly and matter-of-factly as she had filled her
dead mother's place in the home while her brothers and sisters
were growing up, Rose stepped into her father's business, took
over the editorship and with a boy to do the typesetting and
presswork, continued the paper without missing an issue. It even
paid a little better than before, partly because it flattered
Fallon's sense of Christian helpfulness to throw whatever it
could in Rose's way, but chiefly because she made the Independent
a livelier sheet with double the usual number of "Personals."

Yes, decidedly, Rose had force and push. Martin's mind was made
up. He would drop into the Independent ostensibly to extend his
subscription, but really to get on more intimate terms with the
woman whom he had now firmly determined should become his wife.
He drew a deep breath of relaxation and finished the glass of
sweetness with that sense of self-conscious sheepishness which
most men feel when they surrender to the sticky charms of an
ice-cream soda. A few minutes later he stood beside Rose's worn
desk.

"How-do-you-do, once more, Miss Rose of Sharon. You're not the