Rodney took her home, the clock in the square booming the half hour after midnight as they went by.  And at the side door he told her to look up at the Dipper throbbing in the cool sky overhead.  Martie knew what was coming, but she looked innocently up, and went to sleep for the first time in her life with a man’s kiss still tingling on her smiling lips.

The cold November weather might have been rosy June; the dull routine of the Monroe home a life rich and full for Martie now.  She sang like a lark, feeding the chickens in the foggy mornings; she dimpled at her own reflection in the mirror; she walked down town as if treading the clouds.  Anything interested her, everything interested her.  Mrs. Harry Locker, born Preble, said that Martie just seemed inspired, the way she talked when old lady Preble died.  Miss Fanny, in the Library, began to entertain serious hopes that the girl would take the Cutter system to heart, and make a clever understudy at the old desk.  Sally, watching, dreamed and yearned of Martie’s distinction, Martie’s happiness; Lydia prayed.  Malcolm Monroe, as became a man of dignity, ignored the whole affair, but Len, realizing that various advantages accrued, befriended his sister, and talked to Rodney familiarly, as man to man.

“I can’t stand that fresh kid!” said Rodney of Len.  Martie shrugged without speaking.  She owed Len no allegiance.  Had it suited Rodney to admire Len, Martie would have been a loyal sister.  As it was, she would not risk a difference with Rodney for any one like Len.  She was embarked now upon a vital matter of business.  Had a few hundreds of dollars been involved, Malcolm Monroe would have been at her elbow, advising, commending.  As it was, her happiness, her life, her children, her whole future might be jeopardized or secured with no sign from him.  Interference from her mother or sisters would have been considered indelicate.  So Martie stood alone.

Immediately after the theatre party, the question of a series of dances again arose, and Martie somewhat hesitatingly repeated her offer of the Monroe house for the first.  Rodney’s friend, Alvah Brigham, was to come to the Parker family for Thanksgiving; the dance was to be on Friday night, and a large picnic to Brewster’s Woods on Saturday.  They would take a lunch, build a fire for their coffee, and have the old school-day programme of singing and games.

For the dance, the two big parlours and the back room must be cleared; that was simple enough.  Angela Baxter would be at the piano for the music; sufficient, if not extraordinary, and costing only two dollars.  The supper would be sandwiches, cake, coffee, and lemonade:  Monroe’s invariable supper.  Rodney thought ices necessary, and suggested at least a salad.  Martie and Sally considered the salad.

“Lord, I wish we could have a punch,” Rodney complained.  The girls laughed.

“Oh, Rod—­Pa would explode!”