r, there's no danger!"

"Isn't there?" he asked doubtfully.

"Not the least, you goose! I'm ever so glad and proud about it--don't
look so woe-begone!"

Their hands were tightly locked: her face was radiant as she smiled up
at him.

"It all works out, John--the furniture clerking, you know, and the
being poor, and all that!"

"Sure it does!"

"Other people have succeeded in spite of it, I mean, so why not you and
I?"

"Of course, they're not BORN rich and successful," he submitted
thoughtfully.

"Look at Lincoln--and Napoleon!" Martie said hardily.

John scowled down at the hand he held.

"Well, it's easier for some people than others," he stated firmly.
"Lincoln may have had to split rails for his supper--what DO you split
rails for, anyway?" he interrupted himself to ask, suddenly diverted.

"Fences, I guess!" Martie offered, on a gale of laughter.

"Well, whatever it was. But I don't see what they needed so many fences
for! But anyway, being poor or rich doesn't seem to matter half as much
as some other things! And now I'm going. Good-bye, Martie."

"And write me, John, and send me books!" she urged, as he turned away.

He was at the door: meditating with his hand on the knob, and his back
turned to her. Martie watched him, expecting some parting word. But he
did not even turn to smile a farewell. He let himself quietly out
without another glance, and was gone. A moment later she heard the
outer door close.

She sat on, in the darkening room, her book forgotten. The storm was
coming fast now. Women in the backyards were drawing in their
clothes-lines with a great creaking and rattling, and the first rush of
warm, sullen drops struck the dusty dining-room window. Curtains
streamed, and pictures on the wall stirred in the damp, warm wind.

Half an hour of furious musketry passed: blue dashes lighted the room
with an eerie splendour, thunder clapped and rolled; died away toward
the south as a fresh onslaught poured in from the north.

Martie heeded nothing. Her soul was wrapped in a deep peace, and as the
cooling air swept in, she dropped her tired head against the chair's
cushion, and drifted into a dream of river and orchard, and of a white
house set in green grass.

She knew that John would write her: she held the unopened envelope in
her fingers the next morning, a strange, sweet emotion at her heart.
The beautiful, odd handwriting, the cleanly chosen words, these made
the commonplace little