uldn't bear to go on and on, it made me
desperate! And I thought Pa and Ma's way is no good, our house never
seems to have much happiness in it--and I'm going to get OUT! There
never was a place like this for good times, and babies, and jokes, and
company to dinner!" smiled Sally, looking about the Hawkeses' parlour
triumphantly.

But then Sally was born devoid of a social sense, mused Martie, walking
home. What would life be without it--she wondered. No affectations, no
barriers, no pretenses--

"Flout me not, Sweet!" said some one at her side. She looked up into
the beaming eyes of Wallace Bannister. "Don't you remember me--I'm the
city feller that came here breakin' all hearts awhile back!"

"You idiot!" Martie laughed, too. "I thought you were miles away!"

"Well, judging by your expression, darling, you were miles away, too,"
said the irrepressible Wallace. "How are you, Brunhilde? Ich liebe
dich! Yes'm, we ought to be miles away, but to tell you the honest
truth, the season is simply ROTTEN here on the coast. We've bust up,
for the moment, but dry those tears. Here's my contract for seven weeks
in San Francisco--seven plays. Sixty bones per week; pretty neat, what?
We begin rehearsing in July, open August eighth, and if it's a go, go
on indefinitely. The Cluetts and I are in this--the rest of the
company's gone flooey. Meanwhile, I have three weeks to wait, and I'm
staying with my aunt in Pittsville studying like mad."

"And what are you doing in Monroe?" Martie said contentedly, as they
wandered along.

"I came here a week ago to change some shoes," said Wallace, "and I saw
you. So to-day I came and made you a formal call."

"You did NOT!" Martie ejaculated, laughing.

"Why didn't I? I fell down eleven steps into your garden, knocked on
the front door, knocked on the side door, talked to some one called
'Ma,' talked to some one called 'Lydia,' and learned that Miss Martha
Brunhilde Monroe was out for a sashay. There!"

"Well--for goodness sake!" Martie was conscious of flushing. From that
second she grew a little self-conscious. He was a funny creature. He
would have been unusually handsome, she thought, if it were not for a
certain largeness--it was not quite coarseness--of feature. He would
have been extraordinarily charming, decided Martie, but for that same
quality in his manner; recklessness, carelessness. She knew he was not
always telling the truth; these honours, these affairs, these
fascinatin