there, Potter Street
told her, taking his feet from a desk, and slapping his book shut.
However, if there was anything he could do, Mart--?

No; she thanked him. She would go up to the Bank, and see Mr. Frost.
She met Rose coming out as she went in.

"Hello, Martie!" Rose was all cordiality. "Nice weather for ducks,
isn't it? But fortunately you and I aren't sugar or salt, are we? Were
you going to see Rodney?"

"Clifford Frost," Martie told her. Did Rose's face really brighten a
little--she wondered?

"Oh! Well, he's there! Come soon and see Doris!" Rose got into the
motor car, and Martie went into the Bank.

Clifford was a tall man, close to fifty, thinner than Dr. Ben, more
ample of figure than Malcolm. He wore a thin old alpaca coat in the
Bank in this warm spring weather. A green shade was pushed up against
his high forehead, which shone a little, and as Martie settled herself
opposite him, he took off his big glasses, and dried them in a
leisurely fashion with a rotary motion of his white handkerchief.

He was reputedly the richest man in town, but rich in country fashion.
Such property as he had, cattle, a farm or two, several buildings in
Main Street, and stock in the Bank, he studied and nursed carefully,
not from any feeling of avarice, but because he was temperate and
conservative in all his dealings.

Martie liked his office, much plainer than Rodney's, but with something
dignified about its well-worn furnishings that Rodney's shining brass
and glass and mahogany lacked. She thought that perhaps Ruth had given
her father the two pink roses that were toppling in a glass on the
desk; she eyed the big photograph of Colonel Frost respectfully.

"Well, well, Mrs. Bannister, how do you do! I declare I haven't seen
much of you since you came back! How's that boy of yours? Nice
boy--nice little feller."

"He's well, thank you, Clifford; he's never been ill. And how's your
own pretty girl?" Martie smiled, using the little familiarity
deliberately.

When he answered, with a father's proud affection, he called her
"Martie," as she suspected he might. She went to her point frankly. Pa,
she explained, was playing fast and loose with the town's offer for the
property. The man opposite her frowned, nodded, and stared at the floor.

"You girls naturally feel--" he nodded sympathetically.

"Lydia does. But, Clifford, that's just where I need your help. I think
it would be madness not to sell!"

"Madness NOT