-Ma used to say that it was born in me
to hold aloof! A man had to say something PRETTY DEFINITE before I was
willing to fling myself into his arms! And what's the result, I'm an
old maid--and I have myself to thank!"

"Lyddy, darling, WHAT are you driving at?"

The sisters were at supper together, on a warm spring Sunday. Martie,
removing from his greasy little hand a chop-bone that Teddy had chewed
white, looked up to see that her sister's face was pale, and her eyes
reddened with tears. Cornered, Lydia took refuge in pathos.

"Oh--I don't know! I suppose it's just that I cannot seem to feel that
one of those bare little houses in the Estates EVER will seem like
home," faltered Lydia. "You and Pa must do as you think best, of
course--you're young and bright and full of life, and naturally you
forget--but I suppose I feel that Ma--that Ma--!"

She left the table in tears, Martie staring rather bewilderedly after
her. Teddy gazed steadily at his mother, a question in his dark eyes.
He was not a talkative child, except occasionally, when she and he were
alone, but they always understood each other. To Martie he was the one
exquisite and unalloyed joy in life. His splendid, warm little person
was at once the tie that bound her to the old days, and to the future.
Whatever that future might be, it would bring her nothing of which she
could be so proud. Nobody else might claim him; he was hers.

He suddenly smiled at her now, and slipping from the table with a great
square of sponge cake in his hand, backed up to his mother to have his
napkin untied. He guarded his cake as best he could when his mother
suddenly beset him with a general rumpling and kissing, and then
slipped out into the yard as silently as a little rabbit.

But Martie sat on, musing, trying to catch the inference that she knew
she had missed from Lydia's tirades. Lydia was furious about the sale
of the house, of course--but this new note--?

In a rush, comprehension came. Alone in the dark old dining room, in
the disorder of the Sunday suppertable, Martie's cheeks were dyed a
bright, conscious crimson. Could Lydia mean--could Lydia possibly be
implying that Cliff--that Cliff--?

For half an hour she sat motionless--thinking. The richest--the most
respected man in Monroe, and herself engaged to him, married to him.
But could it be true?

She began to remember, to recall and dissect and analyze her recent
encounters with Clifford, and as she did so,