The ceremony took place in the comfortable parlours of the Ransome house; the pretty home wedding possible because Rodney was not a Catholic.  Just like Rose’s luck—­instead of being married in the bare, big church, thought Martie, at whose age the religious side of the question did not appear important.  Dr. Ben gave his young cousin away, and Rose’s mother, whose every thought since the fatherless child was born had been for the girl’s good, who had schemed and worked and prayed for twenty years that Rose might be happy, that Rose might have music and languages, travel and friends, had her reward when the lovely little Mrs. Parker flung her fragrant arms about her, and gave her her first kiss.

Rose looked her prettiest, just becomingly pale, becomingly merry, becomingly tearful.  Her presents, on view upstairs, were far finer than any Monroe had seen since Cliff Frost was married.  Rodney was the usual excited, nervous, laughing groom.  The wedding supper was perfection, and the young people danced when Father Martin was gone, and when the bride and groom had dashed away to the ten-o’clock train.

It was all over.  Rose had everything, as usual, and Martie had nothing.

Easter was in early April that year, and the sweet, warm month was dying away when one afternoon Miss Fanny, always hopeful for this dreaming helpless young creature so full of big faults and big possibilities, detained Martie in the Library for a little dissertation upon card catalogues.  Martie listened with her usual enthusiastic interest.  Yes—­she understood; yes, she understood.

“There’s your telephone, Miss Fanny!” said she, in the midst of a demonstration.  The older woman picked up the instrument.

“It’s for you, Martie.  It’s Sally,” she said, surprised.  “Sally!” Martie did not understand.  She had left Sally at the bridge, and Sally was to go on to the Town Hall for Pa, with a letter.

“Hello, Martie!” said a buoyant yet tremulous voice.  “Martie—­this is Sally.  I’m over at Mrs. Hawkes’s.  Martie—­I’m married!”

“Married!” echoed Martie stupidly, eyeing the listening Miss Fanny bewilderedly.

“Yes—­to Joe.  Lissun—­can’t you come right over?  I’ll tell you all about it!”

Martie put back the receiver in a state of utter stupefaction.  Fortunately the Library was empty, and after telling Miss Fanny the little she knew, she went out into the sweet, hot street.  The town was in a tent of rustling new leaves; lilacs were in heavy flower.  Roses and bridal-wreath and mock-orange trees were in bloom.  Rank brown grass stood everywhere; the fruit blossoms were gone, tall buttercups were nodding over the grass.