ke that is strong enough to make you willing
to break a good man's heart, and desert your child?" asked Lydia in
calm tones.

"It won't break his heart, Lyd--not nearly so much as he broke yours,
years ago! And when I can--when I could, I would send for my boy! He'd
be happier here--" Martie, rather timidly watching her sister's face,
suddenly realized the futility of this and changed her tone. "But let's
not talk about it any more to-night, Lydia, we're both too tired and
excited!"

"I don't understand you," Lydia said patiently and wearily, "I never
did. I should think that SOMETIMES you'd wonder whether you're right,
and everybody else in the world is wrong--or whether the rest of us
know SOMETHING--"

Martie generously let her have the prized last word, and went upstairs
again.

To her surprise she found Teddy awake. She sat down on the edge of the
bed, and leaned over the small figure.

"Teddy, my own boy! Haven't you been asleep?"

"Moth'," he said, with a child's uncanny prescience of impending
events, "if I were awfully, awfully bad--"

"Yes, Ted?" she encouraged him, as he paused.

"Would you ever leave me?" he asked anxiously.

The question stabbed her to the heart. She could not speak.

"I'm enough for you, aren't I?" he said eagerly. Still she did not
speak. "Or do you need somebody else?" he asked urgently.

A pang went through her heart. She tightened her arm about him.

"Teddy! You are all I have, dear!"

His small warm hand played with the ruffle of her blouse.

"But--how about Uncle Cliff, and Uncle John, and all?" he asked. Martie
was silent. "Are you going to marry them?" he added, with a child's
hesitation to say what might be ridiculous.

"No, Ted," she answered honestly.

"Well, promise me," he said urgently, sitting up to tighten his arms
about her throat, "promise me that you will never leave me! I will
never leave you, if you will promise me that! PROMISE!"

He was crying now, and Martie's own tears started thick and fast.

"I might have to leave you--just for a while--" she began.

"Not if you promised!" he said jealously.

"Even if I went away from Aunt Sally and the children, Ted, and we had
to live in a little flat again?" she stammered.

"Even THEN!" he said, with a shaken attempt at a manly voice. "I
remember the pears in the carts, and the box you dropped the train
tickets into," he said encouragingly, "and I remember Margar's bottles
that you used to let me was