went to and
fro; Len shifted his position; Sally coming in with a plate of sliced
bread hummed contentedly. Martie appeared in her usual place at supper,
not too subdued to win a laugh even from her father with some vivacious
imitation of Miss Tate rallying the children for Sunday School.
Happiness was bubbling like a spring in her heart.

After dinner, the dishes being piled in the sink to greet Belle on
Monday morning, she went to the piano and crashed into "Just a Song at
Twilight," and "Oh, Promise Me," and "The Two Grenadiers." These and
many more songs were contained in a large, heavy album entitled
"Favourite Songs for the Home." Martie had a good voice; not better
than Sally's or Lydia's, but Sally and Lydia rarely sang. Martie had
sung to her own noisy accompaniment since she was a child; she loved
the sound of her own voice. She had a hunger for accomplishment,
rattled off the few French phrases she knew with an unusually pure
accent, and caught an odd pleasing word or an accurate pronunciation
eagerly on the few occasions when lecturers or actors in Monroe gave
her an opportunity.

To-night her father, in his library, heard the sweet, true tones of her
voice in "Lesbia" and "Believe Me," and remembered his mother singing
those same old songs. But when a silence followed he remembered only
faulty Martie, awkwardly making Rodney Parker welcome at the most
inconvenient time her evil genius could have suggested, and he
presently went into the sitting room with the familiar scowl on his
face.

On the next Sunday Rodney hired a Roman-nosed, rusty white horse at
Beetman's, and for two hours he and Martie drove slowly about. They
drove up past the Poor House to the Cemetery, and into the Cemetery
itself, where black-clad forms were moving slowly among the graves. The
day was cold, with a bleak wind blowing; the headstones looked bare and
forlorn.

At half-past three, driving down the Pittsville road, back toward
Monroe, Rodney said:

"Why don't you come and have tea at our house, Martie?"

Martie's heart rose on a great spring.

"Why--would your mother--" She stopped short, not knowing quite how to
voice her hesitation. Had she expressed exactly what was in her mind
she might have said: "First, won't your mother and sisters snub me? And
secondly, is it quite correct, from a conventional standpoint, for me
to accept your casual invitation?"

"Sure. Mother'll be delighted--come on!" Rodney urged.

"I'd lo