Sally’s face was flaming.  She had stopped working, and both sisters faced each other consciously.

“In other words,” smiled Martie, “I wish I had been married to him ten years ago, and by this time had little Sally and Cliffy—­”

“Oh, dearest, I do hope there are children!” Sally said eagerly.

“I hope so, too!” Martie said simply.  And with suddenly misting eyes Sally heard her say softly, half to herself, “I want another girl!” Then her lip trembled, and to the older sister’s consternation she began to cry, with her shining head laid on her arms.  “I don’t know w-w-what to do, Sally!” she sobbed.  “I don’t know what is right!  I know I’m desperately tired of worrying and fretting and being criticised!  I don’t see why it should be my life that is always being upset and disorganized, while other women go on placidly having children and giving dinners!”

“Perhaps because you are so different from other? women?” Sally suggested, somewhat timidly.  She was not sure that Martie would like this.

But Martie gave her a grateful glance, and immediately dried her eyes with a brisk evidence of returning self-control.

“Well!” she said sensibly.  “It is that way, anyhow, and I have to make the best of it.  I married foolishly, in some ways, and I paid the price—­nobody knows what it was!  Then I came back here, and had really worked out a happy life for myself, when Cliff came along, and no sooner was I adjusted to Cliff—­to the thought of marriage again, when John upset it all!”

“The happiness of the woman who marries Cliff ought to be pretty safe,” offered Sally.

“Yes, I know it.  But Sally,” Martie said, looking at her sister questioningly, “sometimes I feel that I don’t dare risk it!  I can’t marry John, but I can’t seem to—­to let him go, either.  I know what madness that visit was, and yet—­and yet every minute that we were together was like—­I don’t know—­like swimming in a sea of gold!  I didn’t know what I wore or ate in those days!  Pa and Lyd—­other people didn’t seem to exist!  I never believed before that any one could feel as strange—­as bewildered and excited and happy—­as I did then.  It was like being hungry and satisfied at the same time.  It was just like being under a spell!  His voice, Sally, and the way he speaks of men and books—­so surely, and yet in that boyish way—­and his hands, and the way he smiles through his lashes—­I can’t forget one instant of it!  We got breakfast together; I can’t go into the kitchen now without remembering it, and longing to have him there again, whipping eggs and hunting about for the butter, while all the time we were laughing and talking so wonderfully!  It’s that—­loving that way, that makes life worth while, Sally.  Nothing else counts!  Nothing that we did together seemed insignificant, and nothing that I do without him is worth while—­I can’t—­can’t—­can’t let him go!”

Sally was frightened as her sister’s head went down again.  She could think of nothing to say.  “I can’t help thinking that our life would be that,” Martie went on presently, raising her sombre face to rest it on one hand, her elbows propped on the table.  “Everything would be wonderful, just because we love each other so!  He writes, and I would write—–­”