Three weeks had passed since Mildred Latham first saw the city she now called home. She considered it the only home she ever really had; because she had in one person a friend, such as she had never felt she would have. That friend was Constance Jacobs. Daily, they went forth together in their work, which was the sale of The Tempest. There was another, who was, apparently, a friend also. That was Wilson Jacobs—but more of him later.
Where there is congeniality, understanding and sympathy, there is happiness to a degree. When such is the case, every day—despite even an arduous task, within itself, becomes a holiday. Such were the days which Mildred Latham experienced. Constance was like a sister. One of those rare creatures, whose happiness came in her honest and sincere desire, to see that others were happy about her. She had found Mildred a girl secretive to an unfathomable degree, and, to say the least, strange; but withal, a personality, and a sympathy that was so sincere, even devout, that she loved her more than her own soul. That affection seemed to grow and become more apparent when she saw, slowly but truly, nevertheless, a cloud lifting from the brow of the girl who came to her door in quest of lodging, not long since.
"Wilson," said she one day, "do you know, can you appreciate how much it means to one to please somebody; to make one feel happy, relieved, and in turn, see that person, come to know her, and see how genuinely she can, in turn, appreciate what one does?"
"You are dealing in riddles today, Constance. I don't understand; but I will guess. Is it Mil—Miss Latham?"
"Yes—Miss Latham," whereupon she smiled upon him, and then looked away.
"Yes," she resumed, looking out of the window upon a small garden she was trying to further, "it is she. I think if I know her until the end of my days, there will always be something strange—something I do not—can never understand; but, in addition to showing a kind regard for the little things it pleases one's heart to do, she makes me so happy."
"She keeps me puzzled," said Wilson. "I can never make up my mind about her. She is indeed a mystery. I do not, as I can see, have any clue in guessing who she is—and what she is, nor can I even conjecture. She is a lady. But as you say, and have said before, there is something about her that one can never understand." He was thoughtful. Presently he heard his sister.
"She is an excellent saleswoman, although I do not think she was selling the book until she came here. I have not asked her. She is one of these people who, while not forbidding approach, yet her manner does not invite questioning. But she is a business woman—girl. I cannot come to see her as a girl, and yet, in the sense we know her, she is not a woman."
"I finished the book. That young man had an extraordinary experience, to say the least," said Wilson.
"Mr. Carroll has finished the copy I sold him, but his sympathies are not altogether with the pioneer; he criticises him."