beyond definition, beyond words. What she would not have dared
to hope, she actually experienced. No need to boast before Sally and
Grace and Florence Frost. They saw: the whole village saw.

Martie bloomed like a rose. She forgot everything--Pa, Len, the gloomy
home, the uncertain future--for joy. That her old hat was shabby and
her clothes inappropriate meant nothing to Martie; ignorant, unhelped,
she stumbled on her way alone. Nobody told her to pin her bronze braids
more trimly, to keep her brilliant skin free from the muddying touch of
sweets and pastries, to sew a hook here and catch a looping hem there.
Nobody suggested that she manicure her fine big hands, or use some of
her endless leisure to remove the spots from her blue silk dress.

More; the family dared take only a stealthy interest in Martie's
affair, because of Malcolm's extraordinary perversity and Len's young
scorn. Malcolm, angered by Lydia's fluttered pleasure in the honour
Rodney Parker was doing their Martie, was pleased to assume a high and
mighty attitude. He laughed heartily at the mere idea that the
attentions of Graham Parker's son might be construed as a compliment to
a Monroe, and sarcastically rebuked Lydia when, on a Sunday afternoon,
she somewhat stealthily made preparations for tea. Martie and Rod were
walking, and Martie, before she went, had said something vague about
coming back at half-past four.

Lydia, abashed, gave up her plan for tea. But she did what she could
for Martie, by inveigling her father into a walk. Martie and Rod came
into an empty house, for Sally was out, no one knew where, and Mrs.
Monroe had gone to church where vespers were sung at four o'clock
through the winter.

Martie's colour was high from fast walking in the cold wind, her eyes
shone like sapphires, and her loosened hair, under an old velvet
tam-o'-shanter cap, made a gold aureole about her face. Rodney,
watching her mount the little hill to the graveyard with a winter
sunset before her, had called her "Brunhilde," and he had been talking
of grand opera as they walked home.

Enchanted at finding the house deserted, she very simply took him into
the kitchen. The kettle was fortunately singing over a sleeping fire;
Rodney sliced bread and toasted it, while Martie, trying to appear
quite at her ease, but conscious of awkward knees and elbows just the
same, whisked from pantry to kitchen busily, disappearing into the
dining room long enough to lay the tea