Martie took the big envelope, smiling.  The smile deepened as she read.  After a minute she turned the letter about on the desk, so that Sally might read it too.

“From the editor of the magazine that took my other article,” Martie explained.  “I sent them another, two weeks ago.”

Sally read: 

My dear Mrs. Bannister: 

Your second article has been read with much interest in this office, and we are glad to use it.  Enclosed is a check for $100, which we hope will be satisfactory to you.  Our readers have taken so continued an interest in your first article that we are glad to give them something more from your pen.

If you are ever in New York, will you favor us with a call?  It is possible that we might interest you with an offer of permanent work on our staff.  We make a special feature, as perhaps you know, of articles of interest to growing girls, and when we find a writer whose work has this appeal, we feel that she belongs to us.

In any case, let us hear from you soon again.

“A hundred dollars!” Sally said proudly, handing the letter back.  “You smart thing!  That’s a nice letter, isn’t it?  Don’t you think it is?  I do.  Listen, Mart, don’t say anything about Joe’s plans, will you?  That’s all in the air.  I’ve got to go now, it’s eleven.  And Mart, don’t worry too much about anything.  It will all seem perfectly natural and pleasant once it’s done.  Good-bye, dear, I wish I could have been some help to you about it all!”

“You have been, Sally—­I believe you’ve been the greatest help in the world!” Martie answered enigmatically, kissing Mary’s soft little neck where the silky curls showed under the little scalloped bonnet.  “Good-bye, dear—­don’t walk too fast in this sun!”

When Sally had tripped away, Martie sat on at the Library desk, staring vaguely into space.  Outside, the village hummed with the peaceful sounds of a mild autumn morning.  A soft fog had earlier enveloped it; it was rising now; every hour showed more of the encircling brown hills; by noon the school children would rush into a sunshiny world.  Shopping women pushed baby-carriages over the crossings; a new generation of boys and girls would swarm to Bonestell’s in the late afternoon.  Time was always moving, under it all; in a few weeks the Clifford Frosts would be home again; in a few months the High School would stand on the ground where little Sally and Martie Monroe had played dolls’ house a few years ago.

This was her last week at the Library; Daisy David was coming in to take her place.  Already Miss Fanny suspected the truth, and her manner had changed toward Martie a little, already she was something of a personage in Monroe.

Women and children and old men came out and in, their whispers sounding in the quiet, airy space.  Len’s wife came in, with the third daughter who should have been a son.  Teddy and Billy came in; they wanted five cents for nails; they had run out of nails.  Measles had closed the little boys’ classes, and they were wild with the joy of unexpected holiday.