As it was the custom for the more intimate friends to bring a cake, a
pan of cookies, or a great jug of strong lemonade to such an affair,
there was more food than twice this surging group of men, women, and
children could possibly consume, so that the boys and girls could keep
their mouths full of oily, nutty, walnut wafers and broken bits of
layer cake without any conscientious scruples. One of the large kitchen
tables was entirely covered with plates bearing layer cakes, with
chocolate, maple, shining white, and streaky orange icings, or topped
with a deadly coating of fluffy cocoa-nut. On the floor half a dozen
ice cream freezers leaked generously; at the sink, Mrs. Rose, who had
been Minnie Hawkes, was black and sticky to the elbows with lemon juice.

Meanwhile Martie, more in tune with the actual jollity than either of
her sisters, was warming to her most joyous mood. Her costume of thin
white waist and worn serge skirt might have been considered deficient
in a more formal assembly, but here it passed without comment; the
girls' dresses varied widely, and no one seemed any the less gay. Grace
had a long streamer of what appeared to be green window-net tied
loosely about a worn pink satin slip; Elsa Prout wore the shepherdess
costume she had made for the Elks' Hallowe'en Dance, and Mrs. Cazley,
sitting with her back against the wall, wore her widow's bonnet with
its limp little veil falling down to touch her fresh white shirtwaist.
Martie improved her own costume by pinning a large pink tissue-paper
rose against her high white stock, and fastening another in her bronze
hair; the girls laughed appreciatively at her audacity; a vase of the
paper roses had been in the parlour for years. Youth and excitement did
the rest.

Here, where her motives could not be misunderstood, where her presence
indeed was to be construed as adding distinction and dignity to the
festivities, Martie could be herself. She laughed, she flirted with the
common yet admiring boys, she paid charming attention to the old women.
A rambling musical programme was presently set in motion; Martie's
voice led all the voices. She was presently asked to sing alone, and
went through "Believe Me" charmingly, putting real power and pathos
into the immortal words. Returning, flushed and happy in a storm of
clapping, to her place between Al Lunt and Art Carter on the sofa, she
kept those appreciative youths in such convulsions of laughter that
their entire n