times, Martie! Remember our picnics and parties?"

Martie glanced at him quickly, and smiled a little doubtfully. She
found nothing to say.

"I often look back," Rodney went on. "And I think sometimes that there
couldn't have been a sweeter friendship than yours and mine! What good
times we had! And you and I always understood each other; always, in a
way, brought out the best of each other." He looked about; no one else
was in hearing. "Now, I've got the sweetest little wife in the world,"
he said. "I worked hard, and I've prospered. But there's nothing in my
life, Martie, that I value more than I do the memory of those old days;
you believe that, don't you?"

"Indeed I do," Martie said cordially, over a deep amusement that was
half scorn.

Rodney's next remark was made in a low, intense tone and accompanied by
a direct look.

"You've grown to be a beautiful woman, Martie!"

"I have?" she laughed uncomfortably.

"And Cliff," he said steadily, "is a lucky fellow!"

He had noticed it, then? It must be--it must be so! But Martie could
not assume the implied dignity.

"Cliff is a dear!" she said lightly, warmly.

"Rose has seen this coming for a long time," Rodney pursued. "Rose is
the greatest little matchmaker!"

This was the final irony, thought Martie. To have Rose credited with
this change in her fortunes suddenly touched her sense of humour. She
did not speak.

"The past is the past," said Rodney. "You and I had our boy-and-girl
affair--perhaps it touched us a little more deeply than we knew at the
time; but that's neither here nor there! But in any case, you know that
you haven't a warmer or a more devoted friend than I am-you do know
that, don't you?-and that if ever I can do anything for you, Martie,
I'll put my hand in the fire to do it!"

And with his eyes actually a little reddened, and his heart glowing
with generous affection, Rodney lightly pressed her hand, laughed,
blinked, and turned away. A moment later she heard him call Rose
"Dearest," as he capably held her dust-coat for his wife, and capably
buttoned and straightened it. They were starting.

The three cars got away in a straggling line, trailed each other
through Main Street, and separated for the eleven-mile run. Martie was
listening with a half-smile to the children's eager chatter, and
thinking vaguely that Clifford might ask her to-day, or might not ask
her for three years, when a half-shy, half-husky aside from him, and a
sudd