Martie presently found herself telling Miss Fanny that she would like a few hours’ freedom that afternoon:  she had shopping to do.  She ate her basket lunch as usual, then she walked out into the glaring afternoon light of Main Street.  A summer wind was blowing, the warm air was full of grit and dust.

The Bank first, then Clifford’s office, then a long, silent hour praying, in the empty little church, where the noises of Main Street were softened, as was the very daylight that penetrated the cheap coloured windows.  Then Martie went to Dr. Ben’s, and last of all to Sally’s house.

She was to take Teddy home and Sally came with them to the gate.  It was sunset and the wind had fallen.  There was a sweet, sharp odour of dew on the dust.

“Be good to my boy, Sally!”

“Martie—­as if he was mine!” Sally’s eyes filled with tears at her sister’s tone:  she was to have Teddy during the honeymoon.

Martie suddenly kissed her, an unusually tender kiss.

“And love me, Sis!”

“Martie,” Sally said troubled, “I always do!”

“I know you do!”

Martie laughed, with her own eyes suddenly wet, caught Teddy’s little hand, and walked away.  Sally watched the tall, splendid figure out of sight.

At the supper-table she was unusually thoughtful.  Her eyes travelled about the familiar room, the room where her high-chair had stood years ago, the room where the Monroes had eaten tons of uninteresting bread and butter, and had poured gallons of weak cream into strong tea, and had cut hundreds of pies to Ma’s or Lydia’s mild apologies for the crust or the colour.  How often had the windows of this room been steamy with the breath of onions and mashed potatoes, how many; limp napkins and spotted tablecloths had had their day there!  Martie remembered, as long as she remembered anything, the walnut chairs, with their scrolls and knobs, and the black marble fireplace, with an old engraving, “Franklin at the Court of France,” hanging above it.  Mould had crept in and had stained the picture, which was crumpled in deep folds now, yet it would always be a work of art to Pa and to Lydia.

She looked at Lydia; gentle, faded, dowdy in her plum-coloured cloth dress, with imitation lace carefully sewed at neck and sleeves; at Lydia’s flat cheeks and rather prim mouth.  She was like her mother, but life had perforce broadened Ma, and it was narrowing Lydia.  Lydia was young no longer, and Pa was old.

He sat chewing his food uncomfortably, with much working of the muscles of his face; some teeth were missing now, and some replaced with unmanageable artificial ones.  The thin, oily hair was iron-gray, and his moustache, which had stayed black so much longer, was iron-gray, too, and stained yellow from the tobacco of his cigars.  His eyes were set in bags of wrinkles; it was a discontented face, even when Pa was amiable and pleased by chance.  Martie knew its every expression as well as she knew the brown-and-white china, and the blue glass spoon holder, and the napkin-ring with “Souvenir of Santa Cruz” on it.  She could not help wondering what they would make of the new house when they got into it, and how the clumsy, shabby old furniture would look.