expenses paid and thirty-five dollars a month besides. Her duties were
not arduous, for the hotel servants attended to most of Mrs.
Kilpatrick's wants. She, however, read to the invalid, talked, laughed,
sang, pushed the chair around the beautiful walks, and dined with her.
Every afternoon, while Mrs. Kilpatrick took a nap, Martha was free.

At first the hotel life dazzled her. It almost stunned her. The
transition from life on their humble farm, with all its privations and
discomforts, to what seemed to her a fairyland of lights, music,
beautiful gowns and jewels, and the wasteful extravagance and display of
wealth, seemed unreal and impossible. Back on the farm, as the eldest of
a family of seven, she had worked, endured--and hoped. But in her
wildest dreams she had never imagined such a beautiful escape. No one at
home had had the imagination to understand her. No one, unless perhaps
her father, had even sympathized with her in her dismay, when the panic
three years before had forced the little town bank to close, and a
hail-storm that same summer ruined their crops. For before that they had
intended to send her away to boarding-school at Logansport; she had even
passed her entrance examinations. Then, all that had to be forgotten in
the poverty that had followed.

Now, for the first time, Martha was seeing _life_. It was new to her; it
frightened her, but still she was learning to love it.

Mrs. Kilpatrick had been kind, and had grown to be genuinely fond of
her. Thus it was with a touch of sadness that she stopped Martha pushing
the chair up and down the veranda this same autumn afternoon, and
mentioned a subject which she had persistently ignored for three days.

"Martha, dear, let me speak with you," said Mrs. Kilpatrick, suddenly.
"Bring up your chair," she added.

"The doctor has told me," continued Mrs. Kilpatrick, "that he thinks a
sea voyage will be beneficial. He suggests that I spend the coming
winter in some warm climate, preferably Italy, and I have decided to do
so."

Although uncertain as to just how it affected her, Martha could not
restrain her pleasure and excitement at the possible thought of going.
She clasped her hands convulsively, her eyes lighted up with
anticipation, and she cried gladly:

"Lovely! And am I to go, too?"

Mrs. Kilpatrick shook her head. "My dear child," she said sadly, "I am
sorry, but I shall be unable to take you. My sister, who is in New York,
is to accompany me,