“Praise God from whom all blessings flow!” Martie ejaculated piously, with her gay, wild laugh.  “Tell Lyd who we met, Sally!” she called back, as she ran downstairs.

She dashed through the dining room, noting with gratitude that dear old Lyd had set the table in spite of her disapproval.  Beyond the big, gloomy room was an enormous pantry, with a heavy swinging door opening into a large kitchen.  In this kitchen, in the dim light from one gas jet, and in the steam from sink and stove, Mrs. Monroe and her one small servant were in the last hot and hurried stages of dinner-getting.

Martie kissed her mother’s flushed and sunken cheek; a process to which Mrs. Monroe submitted with reproachful eyes and compressed lips.

“I don’t like this, Martie!” said her mother, shaking her head.  “What were you and Sally doing to be so late?”

“Oh, nothing,” Martie said ashamedly.  “I’m awf’ly sorry.  I had no idea what time it was!”

“Well, I certainly will have Pa speak to you, if you can’t get into the house before dark!” Mrs. Monroe said in mild protest.  “Lyd stopped her sewing to set the table.”

“Len home?” Martie, now slicing bread, asked resentfully.

“No.  But a boy is different,” Mrs. Monroe answered as she had answered hundreds of times before.  “Not that I approve of Len’s actions, either,” she added.  “But a man can take care of himself, of course!  Len’s always late for meals,” she went on.  “Seems like he can’t get it through his head that it makes a difference if you sit down when things are ready or when they’re all dried up.  But Pa’s late anyway to-night, so it doesn’t matter much!”

Martie carried the bread on its ugly, heavy china plate in to the table, entering from the pantry just as her father came in from the hall.

“Hello, Pa!” said the girl, placing the bread on the wrinkled cloth with housewifely precision.

Malcolm Monroe gave his youngest daughter glance of lowering suspicion.  But there was no cause for definite question, and Martie, straightening the salt-cellars lovingly, knew it.

“Where’s your sister?” her father asked discontentedly.

“Upstairs, straightening her hair for dinner, I think.”  Martie was sweetly responsive.  “But I can find out, Pa.”

“No matter.  Here, take these things.”  Martie carried away the overcoat and hat, and hung them on the hat rack in the hall.

“Joe Hawkes wants to know if you wish to pay him for driving you up, Pa,” Sally said, coming in from the steps.  Dutifully, meekly, she stood looking at her father.  Lydia, coming in from the kitchen, gave him a respectful yet daughterly kiss.  Singly and collectively there was no fault to be found with the Monroe girls to-night, even by the most exacting parent.

“Your sister said you were upstairs, Sally,” Malcolm said, narrowing his eyes.

“So I was, Pa, but I came down to light the hall gas, and while I was there Joe came to the door,” Sally answered innocently.