He would want her advice and her
help in his work. She would want his companionship and the
stimulus of his mind, in hers. What Linda had craved was a dear
friend among the girls, but no girl had offered her friendship.
This boy had, so she would accept what the gods of time and
circumstance provided. It was a very wonderful thing that had
happened to her. Now why could not something equally wonderful
happen to Marian? Linda wrinkled her brows and thought deeply.
"It's the worst thing in all this world to work and work with
nobody to know about it and nobody to care," thought Linda.
"Marian could break a record if she thought John Gilman cared now
as he used to. It's almost a necessary element to her success.
If he doesn't care, she ought to be made to feel that somebody
cares. This thing of standing alone, since I have found a
friend, appeals to me as almost insupportable. Let me think."
It was not long until she had worked out a scheme for putting an
interest in Marian's life and giving her something for which to
work, until a more vital reality supplanted it. The result was
that she took some paper, went down to the library, and opening
the typewriter, wrote a letter. She read it over, making many
changes and corrections, and then she copied it carefully. When
she came to addressing it she was uncertain, but at last she hit
upon a scheme of sending it in the care of Nicholson and Snow
because Marian had told her that she meant to enter their contest
immediately she reached San Francisco, and she would have left
them her address.
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