Crimson Roses (Musaicum Romance Classics). Grace Livingston Hill

      She longed inexpressibly for a room of her own, no matter how tiny it might be. The idea of a small gas stove appealed to her tremendously. Even without a gas stove she felt sure she could manage her breakfasts, and perhaps an occasional evening meal. Or, if she took a good meal at a restaurant in the middle of the day she might make her evening meal, usually very simple, milk and fruit and crackers or cereal, and that could be managed in her own room of course. She disliked the thought of constant daily contact with other boarders, especially since her talk with this other girl who made it plain what kind of people she had to mingle with in a cheap boarding house. A restaurant was different. One did not have to be so intimate with a crowd as with individuals at the same table.

      She went to one of the restaurants the girl had suggested and ordered a glass of milk and some crackers, and while she was eating them studied the menu. It seemed from the card to be quite easy to select a substantial meal for a very small sum if one was careful about counting the cost. If the lack of variety palled she could always try another restaurant.

      Before the morning was over she had gone into many dreary little dark halls, and climbed many steep narrow flights of stairs in her search, till she began to feel that nowhere in the wide world was her little refuge to be found at any price which she could hope to pay, and her promised wages which at first had seemed so large began to dwindle. How very little it was going to be able to purchase in the way of comfort for her. Oh, if her father had foreseen this, how troubled he would have been! Perhaps she was doing wrong. Perhaps she ought to go with Tom.

      But no, she had her own life to live, and her father would have been just as disappointed to have had her lose the other things of life, which were only to be had if she remained near the city with its music and art and libraries and evening schools. She must have a chance.

      Now and then a feeling of a sob came in her throat. It ought not to be so hard for her. She ought to have her part of what her father had left. But she shrank inexpressibly from Tom's look when he told her as he surely would, that she was spoiling all his prospects in life by her silly whims, and that of course, if she wanted her half of the money it would be impossible for him to get the land he wanted, but together they could have a nice home. No, let him have the home and be satisfied. She would take her chance without the money. Then he had nothing for which to blame her.

      So she toiled on from apartment house to apartment house, in fruitless search.

      About the middle of the afternoon, and just as she was beginning to think with sinking heart that she would have to take a little hall bedroom without heat or give up her plan entirely, she came at last upon a room that seemed to have possibilities.

      It was on the third floor back in the saddest of all the sad little houses she visited, and its roof sloped at the sides.

      It had no heat, but there were two lovely dormer windows looking toward the river, and the spring was coming on. She need not think of heat. Besides, the sad-faced woman who took lodgers said there was a pipe-hole in the chimney, and she had an old wood-stove that she wouldn't mind putting up in winter if the young lady would bring up her own wood. Seeing the young lady had her own furniture, and wouldn't even require a carpet, she would let her have it very cheap.

      Marion joyfully accepted the proposition. The landlady had reluctantly agreed that she might move her things in as soon as was convenient, but the rent was not to begin until the first of the month, which was a little more than a week off.

      All the way home the girl was trying to think what would be best to do about moving her things. She knew her brother would make serious objection to her remaining in the city. He might even go so far as to refuse to let her take her things out of the house. Not that he had any right, of course, for the things were her own; but she knew he would use any method to prevent her staying if he took the whim to be obstinate about it. Marion felt she could afford to run no risks now. She must get her furniture moved at once, and then keep her door locked. There was no other way.

      As soon as dinner was out of the way she shut herself into her room, and went to work. Tom had gone out again as soon as he finished his dinner, so she was not hindered by anything, and he had not thought to ask her what she had been doing all day. Her eyes were bright with excitement and unshed tears. But she had no time to cry. Tenderly and hurriedly she took down the few pictures and little ornaments, and packed them into the bureau drawers with as many of her other belongings as she could get in. She packed the china wash-bowl and pitcher carefully, wrapping them in an old quilt, and tied newspapers about the white bed and other furniture until the room resembled a ghostly edition of itself.

      When all was done, she lay down upon the bare! mattress, her head upon the tied-up pillows, and her raincoat spread over her. She was not sure how she was going to sleep the rest of the nights they stayed in the house, but she was too tired to care. She meant to get her own things into her own little room before her brother and sister-in-law found out anything about it. After they were once safely out of the house she could work with a free mind.

      She carried out her purpose the next morning, securing a wagon to take her furniture, and then hurrying in the trolley car to her new quarters to receive her things and see them safely housed. The landlady had had the room swept and the floor wiped up. The spring sunshine was flooding the windows, and all together Marion felt that it was not a bad prospect for a home.

      As soon as the furniture was all carried in she locked the door, and sped back to her neglected work. The rest of the day she worked as if her life depended on getting things done, not even stopping to get any luncheon for herself. She had paid the first month's rent and the mover out of her own small hoard, which had been saved from time to time during many years. She had but fifteen dollars left on which to live until she should receive her first week's pay, but she felt confident she could make it do, and she was happy in a way, happier than she had been since the death of her father.

      She hurriedly improvised a temporary bed for herself from the old cot used during her father's illness, stored away in the loft. Then, taking care to lock her door, she went at the duties that her sister-in-law had suggested she should do.

      It was not until Tuesday morning that Jennie discovered the locked door.