The Monroe girls still wandered down town on weekday mornings, loitering into the post-office, idling an hour away in the Library, drifting home to mutton stew or Hamburg steak when the clock in the town hall struck twelve.  Sometimes Martie watched the big eastern trains thunder by, looking with her wistful young blue eyes at the card-playing men and the flushed, bored young women with their heads resting on the backs of their upholstered seats.  Sometimes she stopped at the little magazine stand outside of Carlson’s cigar store; her eye caught by a photograph on the cover of a weekly:  “Broadway at Forty-Second,” or “Night Lights from the Singer Building,” or the water-front silhouette that touches like the sight of a beloved face even some hearts that know it not.  She wanted to do something, now that it was certain that she would not marry.  Slowly, and late, Martie’s soul was awakening.

She asked her father if she might go to work.  Certainly she might, her father said lifelessly.  Well, what should she do?—­the girl persisted.

“Ah, that’s quite another thing!” Malcolm said, with his favourite air of detecting an inconsistency.  “You want to work?  Well and good, go ahead and do it!  But don’t expect me to tell you what to do.  Your mother may have some idea.  Your grandmother—­and she was the loveliest woman I ever knew!—­was content to be merely a lady, something I wish my daughters knew a little more about.  Her beautiful home, her children and servants, her friends and her church—­that was her work!  She didn’t want to push coarsely out into the world.  However, if you do, go ahead!  I confess I am tired of seeing the dark, ugly expression you’ve worn lately, Martie.  Go your own way!”

Armed with this ungracious permission, Martie went down to see Miss Fanny, talked with Grace, and even, meeting him on a lonely walk, climbed into the old phaeton beside Dr. Ben, and asked his advice.  Nothing definite resulted, yet Martie was the happier for the new interest.  Old Father Martin talked to her of her plans one day, and presently put her in communication with a certain widow, Mrs. O’Brien, of San Francisco, who wanted an intelligent young woman to go with her to New York to help with the care and education of two little O’Briens.

This possibility fired Martie and Sally to fever-heat, and they hoped and prayed eagerly while it was under discussion.  New York at last! said Martie, who felt that she had been waiting endless years for New York.  But Mrs. O’Brien, it seemed, wanted some one who would be able to begin French and German and music lessons for little Jane and Cora, and the question of Martie’s fitness was settled.

Still she was happier, and when Easter came, and the Monroe girls were bidden to Rose’s wedding, it was with a new and charming gravity in face and manner that Martie went.