To do that would make it all wasted and wrong.  To do that would be to lose the little she had brought from the hard years.  She knew that she would not do it.  She put it all away, when the constant thought of it arose, as weakness and madness.

Thursday came, and Martie, walking toward Sally’s house, where she and Teddy always had their Thursday supper, bought a paper, and read that the Nippon Maru had duly sailed.

On the way she met Teddy himself—­he had been to the store for Aunt Sally—­with ’Lizabeth and Billy; he was happy, chattering and curveting about her madly in the warm twilight.  He was happy here, and safe, she told herself.  And the Nippon Maru had sailed—­

Sally was in her kitchen, her silky hair curled in damp rings on her forehead.  She had on her best gown, a soft blue gingham, for Sally had just been elected to the club, and had been there this afternoon.  She had turned up the skirt of her dress, and taken off the frilled white collar, laying it on a shelf until the dinner fuss and hurry should be over.  Mary was sitting in the high-chair, clean and expectant, Jim was hammering nails in porch.

The children put down their bread and butter, Sally kissed her sister.  Martie began to butter swiftly, and spread it with honey.

“San Francisco paper, Mart?”

“Yes.”  Martie did not look up.  “Mr. Dryden and Mr. Silver sailed this morning,” she said.

“Oh, really?” Sally turned a flushed face from the stove.  “Lyd was talking about him to-day, and the way he acted, carrying you off for a walk, or something,” Sally pursued cheerfully.  “And until she happened to say that his wife is living, I declare I was frightened to death for fear he was in love with you, Mart!”

Martie stared at her in simple bewilderment.  Could it be possible that Sally had seen nothing of the fevers and heartaches of this memorable week?  Her innocent allusion to the night of their walk—­ only a week ago!—­brought Martie an actual pang.

For just one other such evening, for just one more talk, Martie was beginning to feel she would go mad.  They had said so little then, they had known so little what this new separation would mean!

And Sally knew nothing of it.  A sudden lonely blankness fell upon Martie’s soul; it mattered nothing to Lydia and Rose and Sally that John Dryden loved her.  It mattered more than life to her.

What use to talk of it?  How flat the words would seem for that memory of everything high and splendid.  Yet she felt the need of speech.  She must talk of him to some one, now when it was too late:  when he was out on the ocean:  when she was perhaps never to see him again.

“Sis,” she said, setting the filled plate in the centre of the table, “do you specially remember him?”

Sally had chanced to come to the old home for just a minute on the morning of her talk with John in the garden.  Sally nodded now alertly.