“For heaven’s sake!” Mrs. Monroesaid, incredulous and absorbed.

“Well, that’s what Flora said.  But mind you, Ma, on Tuesday night little Hildegarde King went to the door, and she says that Annie Poett came in and went upstairs—­Lou was dishing supper, you know the Allens and Mrs. Gorman were there for the funeral, and they were all at table—­and, by the way, Flora says that Lou says that Lizzie Alien was there in that house for three days—­that is, it was nearly three days, for they stayed for supper Wednesday night—­and that Lizzie never raised her hand to one thing, just did nothing but sit around and cry, and say what a good brother Joe was!”

“Did you ever!” commented Mrs. Monroe.

“Anyway, nobody got up from the table, and all they had for it was Hildegarde’s word, and she wasn’t sure it was Annie.  Grandma Lowney was asleep—­they’d gotten her to lie down; she took more care of Joe than any one else, you know, and she sat up both nights.  Clara Baxter says she looks awful; she doesn’t believe she’ll get over it.”

“I shouldn’t wonder!” said Mrs. Monroe with a click of commiseration.

“Lou told Flora that the night Joe was dying, Grandma broke out and said to Paul King that if Joe hadn’t gone with him out to Deegan Point two weeks ago, he never would have had that chill.  But Flora says ...”

The low voices went on and on, even after Malcolm Monroe came in, thoroughly tired and a little chilly, to take his own chair by the fire.  Sally, deposed, came to sit opposite Martie, and idly watched the solitaire.

“Isn’t Rodney Parker nice?” Sally whispered cautiously, after a while.

“I think he is!” Martie answered hardily; but the happy colour came to her cheeks.

“I’ll bet all the girls go crazy about him!” Sally submitted.

A faint pang of jealousy, a vague sense of helplessness, seized upon Martie.  He had been so cordially gay and delightful with her; would he be that with all the girls?  Would Florence Frost, three years older than he, fall a victim to his charm as quickly as she, Martie, had fallen?  Martie had mentioned Florence Frost this afternoon, and by subtle, instinctive, girlish reasoning had found consolation in his reply.  “She’s my sister’s friend; she’s awfully smart, you know--books and all that!” Rodney honestly felt an entire indifference to this admirable young neighbour, and Martie understood his remark as meaning exactly that.

She went on with her patience, the particular game known as the “Idle Year.”  Sometimes Sally touched or mentioned a card.  Sometimes, as a final problem presented itself, the girls consulted as to the wisdom of this play or that.  Between games Martie shuffled vigorously, and they talked more freely.

“I think he’s crazy about you,” said Sally.

“Oh, Sally, don’t be such a fool!”

“I’m not fooling.  Look at the way he turned back and walked with us, and he never took his eyes off you!” Sally, somewhat dashed for an instant by Martie’s well-assumed scorn, gained confidence now, as the new radiance brightened her sister’s face.  “Why, Mart,” she said boldly, “there is such a thing as love at first sight!”