hand in the pitfalls and snares that appeared in the way. Defiantly she set herself the task of proving to him the stuff she was made of. No longer did she require the sign on the vacant building to urge her forward. She didn't even require the incentive of money of her own, with which to buy gilt-edged Stevensons, and courses in literature and art. They were ahead of her, of course waiting as reward after a hard-fought fight, but even without the golden promise of them Ada would have been none the less passionate and determined.
When at the end of a fortnight her father produced an envelope full of thrilling green strips of cardboard paper, and explained, "Tickets, Mary, for you and the four girls, to San Francisco and back," Ada's endurance was strained to its limit.
San Francisco! Last summer, the City of the Golden Gate had gone the way of the Stevenson, the college course, and the trip to Europe with two school friends two years ago. Ada ran the green tickets through her fingers. Names of long-beckoning cities, and dream-spots, flashed before her eyes. But she only shrugged her shoulders. "I hope you can redeem mine, father," she said.
Her mother and the three older girls started ten days later, and Ada and Marcus were left alone
