th her to her own gate. Perhaps she had stayed too long--another
miserable possibility. And how "snippy" Ida and May had been!

Still, Monroe had seen her driving with Rodney, and she had had tea at
the Parkers'! So much was gain. She had almost reached the shabby green
gate that led into the sunken garden when Sally, flying up behind her
in the dusk, slipped a hand through her arm. Martie, turning with a
start and a laugh, saw Joe Hawkes, ten feet away, smiling at her.

"Hello, Joe!" she said, a little puzzled. Not that it was not quite
natural for Sally to stop and speak to Joe, if she wanted to; Joe had
been a familiar figure in their lives since they were children. But--

But Sally was laughing and panting in a manner new and
incomprehensible. She caught Martie by both hands. All three, young and
not understanding themselves or life, stood laughing a little vaguely
in the sharp winter dusk. Joe was a mighty blond giant, only Martie's
age, and younger, except in inches and in sinews, than his years. He
had a sweet, simple face, rough, yellow hair, and hairy, red, clumsy
hands. A greater contrast to gentle little Sally, with her timid brown
eyes and the bloodless quiet of manner that was like her mother and
like Lydia, could hardly have been imagined.

"Where've you been?" Martie asked.

"We've been to church!" dimpled Sally with a glance at Joe.

The pronoun startled Martie.

"We were up in the organ loft," Joe contributed with his half-laughing,
half-nervous grin.

Still bewildered, Martie followed her sister into the dark garden,
after a good-night nod to Joe, and went into the house. Their father
reluctantly accepted the girls' separate accounts of the afternoon:
Sally had been in church, Martie had driven about with Rod and had gone
to tea at his house. Lydia fluttered with questions. Who was there?
What was said? Malcolm asked Martie where Rodney had left her.

"At the gate, Pa," the girl responded promptly.

All through the evening her eyes kept wandering in disapproval toward
Sally. Joe Hawkes!--it was monstrous. That stupid, common lout of a
boy--nearly two years her junior, too.

They were undressing, alone in their room, when she spoke of the matter.

"Sally," said she, "you didn't really go sit in the choir with Joe
Hawkes, did you?"

"Well--yes, in a way," Sally admitted, adding indulgently, "he's SUCH
an idiot!"

"How do you mean?" Martie asked sharply. For Sally to flush and dimple
and