usual flirtation. Martie
saw the train nearly every day, but never without a thrill. She said to
herself, "New York!" as a pilgrim might murmur of Mecca or of Heaven.

"That's a good train," said Rodney. "Let's see, this is Wednesday.
They'll be in New York Sunday night. Awful place on Sunday--no
theatres, no ball games, no drinks--"

"I could manage without theatres or ball games," Martie laughed. "But I
must have my whisky!"

"It sounded as if I meant that, but you know me!" he laughed back.
"Lord, how I'd like to show you New York. Wouldn't you love it!
Broadway--well, it's a wonder! There's something doing every minute.
You'd love the theatres--"

"I know I would!" Martie assented, glowing.

"My aunt lives there; she has an apartment right on the Park, at West
Ninetieth," Rodney said. "Her husband has scads of money," the boy
pursued. "You'll have to go on, Martie, there's no two ways about it."

"And Delmonico's?" the girl suggested eagerly. "I've heard of
Delmonico's!"

"Delmonico's is where the wedding parties go. Of course, if you say so,
Martie--"

That was one of the sweet and thrilling things to remember. And there
were other things to make Martie's heart dance as she set the dinner
table. But she wondered if she should have asked him in.

Martie stopped short, salt-cellars in her hand. How could she--with
Pa's arrival possible at any moment. Besides she had asked him, as they
lingered laughing at the gate. That was all right--it was late, anyway.
He had gaily refused, and she had not pressed him. And, wonderful
thought, they were going walking on Sunday.

Monroe boys and girls usually walked on Sunday. They walked up the
track to the Junction, or up between bare fields past the Poor House to
the Cemetery. When a young man hired a phaeton at Beetman's, and took
his girl for a drive on Sunday, it was a definite avowal of serious
attachment. In that case they usually had their Sunday supper at the
home of the young man's mother, or married sister, or with some female
relative whose sanction upon their plans was considered essential.

Rodney Parker was not quite familiar with this well-established
precedent. His sisters were not enough of the village to be asked
either to walk or drive with the local swains, and he had been away for
several years. For two Sundays he walked with Martie, and then he asked
her to drive.

For the girl, these weeks were suffused with a tremulous and ecstatic
delight