something's kept him down town," Lydia said in her flat, gentle
voice. "Len's not home either ..."

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow!" Martie ejaculated piously,
with her gay, wild laugh. "Tell Lyd who we met, Sally!" she called
back, as she ran downstairs.

She dashed through the dining room, noting with gratitude that dear old
Lyd had set the table in spite of her disapproval. Beyond the big,
gloomy room was an enormous pantry, with a heavy swinging door opening
into a large kitchen. In this kitchen, in the dim light from one gas
jet, and in the steam from sink and stove, Mrs. Monroe and her one
small servant were in the last hot and hurried stages of dinner-getting.

Martie kissed her mother's flushed and sunken cheek; a process to which
Mrs. Monroe submitted with reproachful eyes and compressed lips.

"I don't like this, Martie!" said her mother, shaking her head. "What
were you and Sally doing to be so late?"

"Oh, nothing," Martie said ashamedly. "I'm awf'ly sorry. I had no idea
what time it was!"

"Well, I certainly will have Pa speak to you, if you can't get into the
house before dark!" Mrs. Monroe said in mild protest. "Lyd stopped her
sewing to set the table."

"Len home?" Martie, now slicing bread, asked resentfully.

"No. But a boy is different," Mrs. Monroe answered as she had answered
hundreds of times before. "Not that I approve of Len's actions,
either," she added. "But a man can take care of himself, of course!
Len's always late for meals," she went on. "Seems like he can't get it
through his head that it makes a difference if you sit down when things
are ready or when they're all dried up. But Pa's late anyway to-night,
so it doesn't matter much!"

Martie carried the bread on its ugly, heavy china plate in to the
table, entering from the pantry just as her father came in from the
hall.

"Hello, Pa!" said the girl, placing the bread on the wrinkled cloth
with housewifely precision.

Malcolm Monroe gave his youngest daughter glance of lowering suspicion.
But there was no cause for definite question, and Martie, straightening
the salt-cellars lovingly, knew it.

"Where's your sister?" her father asked discontentedly.

"Upstairs, straightening her hair for dinner, I THINK." Martie was
sweetly responsive. "But I can find out, Pa."

"No matter. Here, take these things." Martie carried away the overcoat
and hat, and hung them on the hat rack in the hall.

"Joe Hawkes wants to know