“Oh, no, Mart, you can’t say that.  Rodney is really an awfully clever, steady fellow!” Sally said quickly.

“Sometimes I think we talk lightly about making money,” said Lydia, “but it’s not such an easy thing to do!”

Martie coloured.

“Well, I’m making a start!” she said cheerfully.  It was Lydia’s turn to colour with resentment; she thought that Martie’s acceptance of Miss Fanny’s offer was something only a trifle short of disgrace.

In the pleasant summer mornings Martie walked down town with her father, as she had done since she came home.  But she left him at the big brick doorway of the Library now, and by the time the fogs had risen from Main Street, she was tied into her silicia apron and happily absorbed in her work.  She and Miss Fanny tiptoed about the wide, cool spaces of the airy rooms, whispering, conferring.  Sometimes, in mid-morning, Teddy came gingerly in with Aunt Lydia.

“You’re talking out loud, Moth’!”

“Because there’s nobody else here, darling!”

Martie would catch the child to her heart with a joyous laugh.  She was expanding like a flower in sunlight.  Her work interested her, she liked to pick books for boys and girls, old women and children.  She liked moving about in a businesslike way—­not a casual caller, but a part of the institution.  She had long, whispered conversations, at the desk, with Dr. Ben, with the various old friends.  Sometimes Sally brought the baby in, and Martie sat Mary on the desk, and talked with one arm about the soft little body.

Her duties were simple.  She mastered them, to Miss Fanny’s amazement, on the very first day, and in a week she felt herself happily at home.

All Monroe passed before her desk, and every one stopped for a whispered chat.  Martie came to like the wet days, when the rain slashed down, and the boys, reading at the long table, rubbed wet shoes together.  There was a warmth and brightness and openness about the Library entirely different from the warmest home.  And she took a deep interest in the members, advised them as to books, and held good books for them.  She studied human nature under her green hanging-lamp; her eager eyes and brain were never satisfied.  Not the least advantage to her new work was that she could carry home the new books.

Where the happiness that began to flood her heart and soul came from had its source she could not tell.  Like all happiness, it was made of little things; elements that had always been in Monroe, but that she had not seen before.  She was splendidly well, as Teddy was, and their laughter made the days bright in the old house.  Also she was lovely to look upon, and she must have been blind not to know it.  Her tall, erect figure looked its best in plain black; Martie would never be fat again; her skin was like an apple blossom, white touched deeply with rose, her eyes, with their tender sadness and veiled mirth, were more blue than ever.  Monroe came to know her buoyant step, her glittering, unconquered hair, her voice that had in it tones unfamiliar and charming.  She scattered her gay and friendly interest everywhere; the women said that she had something, not quite style, better than style, an “air.”