Meanwhile Martie, more in tune with the actual jollity than either of her sisters, was warming to her most joyous mood.  Her costume of thin white waist and worn serge skirt might have been considered deficient in a more formal assembly, but here it passed without comment; the girls’ dresses varied widely, and no one seemed any the less gay.  Grace had a long streamer of what appeared to be green window-net tied loosely about a worn pink satin slip; Elsa Prout wore the shepherdess costume she had made for the Elks’ Hallowe’en Dance, and Mrs. Cazley, sitting with her back against the wall, wore her widow’s bonnet with its limp little veil falling down to touch her fresh white shirtwaist.  Martie improved her own costume by pinning a large pink tissue-paper rose against her high white stock, and fastening another in her bronze hair; the girls laughed appreciatively at her audacity; a vase of the paper roses had been in the parlour for years.  Youth and excitement did the rest.

Here, where her motives could not be misunderstood, where her presence indeed was to be construed as adding distinction and dignity to the festivities, Martie could be herself.  She laughed, she flirted with the common yet admiring boys, she paid charming attention to the old women.  A rambling musical programme was presently set in motion; Martie’s voice led all the voices.  She was presently asked to sing alone, and went through “Believe Me” charmingly, putting real power and pathos into the immortal words.  Returning, flushed and happy in a storm of clapping, to her place between Al Lunt and Art Carter on the sofa, she kept those appreciative youths in such convulsions of laughter that their entire neighbourhood was sympathetically affected.  Carl Polhemus, who played the organ at church, had begun a wandering improvisation on the piano, evidently so taken with certain various chords and runs that he could not resist playing them passionately over and over.  A dangerous laugh, started among the younger set, began to strangle and stifle his audience.  Martie, looking straight ahead of her, gave only an occasional spasmodic heave of shoulders and breast, but her lips were compressed in an agony, and her eyes full of tears.  From the writhing boys on each side of her came frequent smothered snorts.

In upon this scene came old Dr. Ben, who had worked hand in hand with Grandma Kelly in the darkened rooms where many of these hilarious youngsters had drawn their first breath.  Although the infatuated musician did not stop at this interruption, many of his listeners rose to greet the newcomer, and the tension snapped.

Dr. Ben sat down next to the old lady, and the room, from which the older guests were quietly disappearing, was enthusiastically cleared for dancing.  The air, close already, became absolutely insufferable now; the men’s collars wilted, the girls’ flushed faces streamed perspiration.  But the cool side-porch was accessible, and the laughter and noise continued unabated.