to my father and sisters--"

"I think I never heard such a damnable set of reasons for a beautiful
woman's marriage!" Silver said, as she paused.

Martie could find no answer. She was excited, bewildered, thrilled, all
at once. She felt that another word would be too much. Silently she
picked up her bowl and her flowers, and crossed the porch to the house.

Lydia, coming in late from a meeting of the Fair Committee, was
speechless. In a pregnant silence she lent cold aid to her audacious
sister. The big bed in Len's room was made, the bureau spread with a
clean, limp towel. Pauline was interviewed; she brightened. Dean Silver
was from Prince Edward's Island, too, it seemed. Pauline could make
onion soup, and rolls were set, thanks be! She could open preserves;
she didn't suppose that sliced figs were good enough for a company
dessert.

They had the preserves, and the white figs, too; figs that Teddy and
Martie had knocked that morning from the big tree in the yard. Lydia
noticed with resentment that Pa had really brightened perceptibly under
the unexpected stimulus. It was Lydia who said mildly, almost
reproachfully, "I'm sorry that I have to give you a rather small
napkin, Mr. Dryden; we had company to dinner last night, and I find
we're a little short--"

John hardly heard her; he saw nothing but Martie, and only rarely moved
his eyes from her, or spoke to any one else. He glowed at her lightest
word, laughed at her mildest pleasantry; he frequently asked her family
if she was not "wonderful."

This was the attitude of that old lover of her dreams, and in spite of
amusement and trepidation and nervous consciousness that she was
hopelessly entangling her affairs, Martie's heart began to swell, and
her senses to feel creeping over their alertness a deadly and delicious
languor. She had been powerless all her life: she thrilled to the
knowledge of her power now.

Dean Silver easily kept the conversation moving. They learned that he
had been overworking, had been warned by his physician that he must
take a rest. So he and John were off for the Orient: he himself had
always wanted to sail up the Nile, and to see Benares.

"John, what a year in fairyland!" Martie exclaimed.

"Well, that's what I tell him," said the novelist. "But he isn't at all
sure he wants to go!"

As John merely gave Martie an unmistakable look at this, she tried
hurriedly for a careless answer.

"John, you would be mad not to go!"

"Yo