that Rose was not going back to college
after Christmas. Quietly, without comment, Sally told this to Martie
when they were going to bed that night.

Martie walked to the window, and stood looking out for a long time.
When she came back to Sally her face was pale, her breast moving
stormily, and her eyes glittering.

"They're engaged, I suppose?" Martie said.

Sally did not speak. But her eyes answered.

"Sally," said her sister, in a voice thick with pain, as she sat down
on the bed, "am I to blame? Could I have done differently? Why does
this come to Rose, who has everything NOW, and pass me by? I--I don't
want to be like--like Lyd, Sally; I want to live! What can I do? Oh, my
GOD," said Martie, rising suddenly and beginning to walk to and fro,
with her magnificent mane of hair rolling and tumbling about her
shoulders as she moved, "what shall I do? There is a world, out there,
and people working and living and succeeding in it--and here I am, in
Monroe--dying, dying, DYING of longing! Sally ..." and with tears wet
on her cheeks, and her mouth trembling, she came close to her sister.
"Sally," whispered Martie unsteadily, "I care for--him. I wanted
nothing better. I thought--I thought that by this time next year we
might--we might be going to have a baby--Rodney and I."

She flung back her head, and went again to the window. Sally burst into
bitter crying.

"Oh, Martie--Martie--I know! I know! My darling, splendid, glorious
sister--so much more clever than any one else, and so much BETTER! I
think it'll break my heart!"

And in each other's arms, nineteen and twenty-one wept together at the
bitterness of life.

The days wore by, and Rose came smiling home for Christmas, and early
in the new year Martie and Sally were asked to a pink luncheon at the
Ransome cottage, finding at each chair two little tissue-paper
heart-shaped frames initialled "R. P." and "R. R." with kodak prints of
Rose and Rodney inside. The Monroe girls gave Rose a "linen shower" in
return, and the whole town shared the pleasure of the happy pair.

Martie had enough to think of now. Not even the thoughts of the
prospective bride could dwell more persistently on her own affairs than
did Martie's thoughts. Rose, welcome at the Parkers', envied and
admired even by Ida and May and Florence; Rose, prettily buying her
wedding finery and dashing off apt little notes of thanks for her
engagement cups and her various "showers"; Rose, fluttering wit