office, then a long, silent hour
praying, in the empty little church, where the noises of Main Street
were softened, as was the very daylight that penetrated the cheap
coloured windows. Then Martie went to Dr. Ben's, and last of all to
Sally's house.

She was to take Teddy home and Sally came with them to the gate. It was
sunset and the wind had fallen. There was a sweet, sharp odour of dew
on the dust.

"Be good to my boy, Sally!"

"Martie--as if he was mine!" Sally's eyes filled with tears at her
sister's tone: she was to have Teddy during the honeymoon.

Martie suddenly kissed her, an unusually tender kiss.

"And love me, Sis!"

"Martie," Sally said troubled, "I always DO!"

"I know you do!"

Martie laughed, with her own eyes suddenly wet, caught Teddy's little
hand, and walked away. Sally watched the tall, splendid figure out of
sight.

At the supper-table she was unusually thoughtful. Her eyes travelled
about the familiar room, the room where her high-chair had stood years
ago, the room where the Monroes had eaten tons of uninteresting bread
and butter, and had poured gallons of weak cream into strong tea, and
had cut hundreds of pies to Ma's or Lydia's mild apologies for the
crust or the colour. How often had the windows of this room been steamy
with the breath of onions and mashed potatoes, how many; limp napkins
and spotted tablecloths had had their day there! Martie remembered, as
long as she remembered anything, the walnut chairs, with their scrolls
and knobs, and the black marble fireplace, with an old engraving,
"Franklin at the Court of France," hanging above it. Mould had crept in
and had stained the picture, which was crumpled in deep folds now, yet
it would always be a work of art to Pa and to Lydia.

She looked at Lydia; gentle, faded, dowdy in her plum-coloured cloth
dress, with imitation lace carefully sewed at neck and sleeves; at
Lydia's flat cheeks and rather prim mouth. She was like her mother, but
life had perforce broadened Ma, and it was narrowing Lydia. Lydia was
young no longer, and Pa was old.

He sat chewing his food uncomfortably, with much working of the muscles
of his face; some teeth were missing now, and some replaced with
unmanageable artificial ones. The thin, oily hair was iron-gray, and
his moustache, which had stayed black so much longer, was iron-gray,
too, and stained yellow from the tobacco of his cigars. His eyes were
set in bags of wrinkles; it was a discontent