n,"
Lydia said sententiously.

"Well, I suppose that when I thought of marrying Rod, I thought of the
old house," Martie pursued. "Of course, they HAVE built a nice home,
but the glory for me was the old place! Rose has a big drawing room,
and a big bedroom, and a guest's bath, and pantries and a side
porch--but I like your house better, Sally, with its trees and flowers
and babies!"

"You're just SAYING that!" Sally observed.

"I like civic pride," Martie, who was rambling on in her old
inconsequential way, presently added, "but Rod is merely SMUG. I
happened to mention some building in New York--I didn't know what to
talk to the man about! He immediately told me that the Mason building
down town was reinforced concrete throughout. I said that I had always
missed the orchards in the East, and he said, with such an unpleasant
laugh, 'We lead the world, Martie, you can't get away from it. Do you
suppose I'd stay here one moment if I didn't think that there is a
better chance of making money right here to-day than anywhere else in
the world?'"

She had caught his tone, and Sally disrespectfully laughed.

"Well, I know he is one of our most prominent young men, and Rose was
president of the club, and I suppose we less fortunate people can talk
all we please, they'll be just that much better off than we are!" Lydia
said with a little edge to her voice.

"Because his father is rich, Lyd. If it wasn't for the dear old Judge,
who pioneered and mined and planned and foresaw, where would Rod be
to-day, telling me that HE thought it best that Rose should nurse the
baby, and that he does this and thinks that?"

"Oh, no, Mart, you can't say that. Rodney is really an awfully clever,
steady fellow!" Sally said quickly.

"Sometimes I think we talk lightly about making money," said Lydia,
"but it's not such an easy thing to do!"

Martie coloured.

"Well, I'm making a start!" she said cheerfully. It was Lydia's turn to
colour with resentment; she thought that Martie's acceptance of Miss
Fanny's offer was something only a trifle short of disgrace.

In the pleasant summer mornings Martie walked down town with her
father, as she had done since she came home. But she left him at the
big brick doorway of the Library now, and by the time the fogs had
risen from Main Street, she was tied into her silicia apron and happily
absorbed in her work. She and Miss Fanny tiptoed about the wide, cool
spaces of the airy rooms, whispering,