ommunication with a certain widow, Mrs. O'Brien,
of San Francisco, who wanted an intelligent young woman to go with her
to New York to help with the care and education of two little O'Briens.

This possibility fired Martie and Sally to fever-heat, and they hoped
and prayed eagerly while it was under discussion. New York at last!
said Martie, who felt that she had been waiting endless years for New
York. But Mrs. O'Brien, it seemed, wanted some one who would be able to
begin French and German and music lessons for little Jane and Cora, and
the question of Martie's fitness was settled.

Still she was happier, and when Easter came, and the Monroe girls were
bidden to Rose's wedding, it was with a new and charming gravity in
face and manner that Martie went.

The ceremony took place in the comfortable parlours of the Ransome
house; the pretty home wedding possible because Rodney was not a
Catholic. Just like Rose's luck--instead of being married in the bare,
big church, thought Martie, at whose age the religious side of the
question did not appear important. Dr. Ben gave his young cousin away,
and Rose's mother, whose every thought since the fatherless child was
born had been for the girl's good, who had schemed and worked and
prayed for twenty years that Rose might be happy, that Rose might have
music and languages, travel and friends, had her reward when the lovely
little Mrs. Parker flung her fragrant arms about her, and gave her her
first kiss.

Rose looked her prettiest, just becomingly pale, becomingly merry,
becomingly tearful. Her presents, on view upstairs, were far finer than
any Monroe had seen since Cliff Frost was married. Rodney was the usual
excited, nervous, laughing groom. The wedding supper was perfection,
and the young people danced when Father Martin was gone, and when the
bride and groom had dashed away to the ten-o'clock train.

It was all over. Rose had everything, as usual, and Martie had nothing.

Easter was in early April that year, and the sweet, warm month was
dying away when one afternoon Miss Fanny, always hopeful for this
dreaming helpless young creature so full of big faults and big
possibilities, detained Martie in the Library for a little dissertation
upon card catalogues. Martie listened with her usual enthusiastic
interest. Yes--she understood; yes, she understood.

"There's your telephone, Miss Fanny!" said she, in the midst of a
demonstration. The older woman picked up the instru