realize that life is going so pleasantly for you. As the years go by,
Joe'll gain steadily; he's that sort; and Dr. Hawkes's children won't
have to envy any children in Monroe. But, oh, Sis--if I could get away!"

The old cry, Sally thought, as she anxiously studied the beautiful,
discontented face.

Presently Clifford came, to take his future wife home, and Joe came
back from the hospital in the Ford, and there was much friendly talk
and laughter. But Sally watched her sister a little wistfully that
evening; didn't Martie think this was all pleasant--all worth while?

CHAPTER VII

Rose's little daughter, pawn that she was in the game of Martie's
fortunes, was pushed into play the following day. For Rose telephoned
Martie at the Library, in the foggy early morning, that Doris was not
well: there was a rather suspicious rash on the baby's chest, and if it
really were measles, there must be no announcement luncheon to-day.

Martie had been eagerly awaiting that luncheon, when a dozen of the
prominent young matrons of Monroe should learn of her engagement. She
put up the telephone thoughtfully. Another delay. Another respite, when
she might still say to herself over and over: "I COULD end it now. It
isn't too late yet!"

In her hand to-day was a brief note brought to land by the tender of
the Nippon Maru. Dean Silver and John had duly sailed, they were far
out on the ocean now. That was settled. Now there was nothing to do but
go on serenely with her interrupted plans.

And yet the restless excitement caused by his coming was still about
her, she could not make herself forget. Everything that his odd and
vibrant personality had touched was changed to her. The wallflowers he
had twisted unseeingly in his nervous fingers, the kitchen where their
eager, ardent talk had gone on over the boiling of coffee and the
mixing of muffins, the hill they had climbed in gray, warm moonlight,
these things belonged to him now. Martie touched the books he had
praised tenderly, hearing his words again.

He had not written her: she knew why. She must be all or nothing to
John now. He had not spoken of her to Dean, he was trying in his
blundering boyish way to forget.

The novelist's note was short, and written in a tone of disappointment
and reproach. Martie read it, and winced as she crumpled it in her
hand. Presently she straightened it out, and read it again. She
flattened it on the desk before her, and studied it resolut