room, a fortnight later—happy and proud, but palpitatingly fearful that she would prove incompetent, unworthy of the increase in her small salary. Not that she cared about the increase for itself, for money was the last thing she needed, but a salary was proof of usefulness, and increase of salary was proof of growth.
Reba's whole soul was wrapped up now in her work. She thought of Nathan, of course, sometimes; wrote to him too, once in a while, but his less and less frequent messages, mailed from strange ports she had never heard of, dwindling finally to scarcely more than a "Dear Rebecca," and a "Good-by. Nathan," with a few stilted lines between, "hoping that she was well, as he was," portended nothing immediately frightening. The three years of freedom were fast passing. That was true. But in a recent message from Nathan he had intimated that the three years might be prolonged by another twelve months—that is, unless she particularly wanted him to return sooner. He could manage it easily, but would it make any difference to her? He would like to know (he repeated that), "Would it make any difference to you, Rebecca?"
Reba replied, by return mail, that it wouldn't make the slightest difference. There was no reason at all for him to hurry back.
Her once vital issue with her home people was also of less importance to Reba. She tried to spend a Sunday occasionally with them, but those Sundays were not very pleasant. Reba grew more and more intolerant of what seemed to her their confined lives and narrow outlooks. They persisted in criticising her to her face, however reconciled they might have become
