flushed
under her shabby summer hat, Martie sauntered between her friends
straight to her golden hour.

Face to face they came with a tall, loosely built, well-dressed young
man, with a straw hat on one side of his head. Such a phenomenon was
almost unknown in the streets of Monroe, and keenly conscious of his
presence, and instantly curious as to his identity, the girls could not
pass him without a provocative glance. "Stunning!" said each girl in
her heart. "Who on earth--?"

Suddenly he blocked their way.

"Hello, Sally! Hello, Martie! Too proud to speak to old friends?"

"Why--it's Rodney Parker!" Martie said in her rich young voice. "Hello,
Rodney!"

All four shook hands and laughed joyously. To Rodney the circumstance,
at the opening of his dull return home, was welcome; to the girls,
nothing short of delight. He was so handsome, so friendly, and in the
four years he had been at Stanford University and the summers he had
spent in hunting expeditions or in eastern visits to his aunt in New
York, he had changed only to improve!

Even in this first informal greeting it was Martie to whom he devoted
his special attention. Sally was usually considered the prettier of the
two, but Martie was lovely to-night. Rodney turned with them, and they
walked to the bridge together. Sally and Grace ahead.

The wind had fallen with the day, the air was mild and warm, and in the
twilight even Monroe had its charm. Flowers were blooming in many
dooryards, yellow light streamed hospitably across the gravelled paths,
and in the early darkness women were waiting in porches or by gates,
and whirling hoses over the lawns were drawing all the dark, hidden
perfumes into the damp night air.

"You've not changed much, Martie--except putting up your hair. I mean
it as a compliment!" said Rodney, eagerly, in his ready, boyish voice.

"You've changed a good deal; and I mean that as a compliment, too!"
Martie returned, with her deep laugh.

His own broke out in answer. He thought her delightful. The creamy
skin, the burnished hair that was fanned into an aureole under her
shabby hat, the generous figure with its young curves, had helped to
bring about in Rodney Parker a sweet, irrational surrender of reason.
He had never been a reasonable boy. He knew, of course, that Martie
Monroe was not in his sisters' set, although she was a perfectly NICE
girl, and to be respected. Martie was neither one thing nor the other.
With Grace, indeed,