“Now I am going to get out!” said Martie, opening her own gate.

When Malcolm Monroe came home that night it was to a well-sustained hurricane of tears and protest.  Mrs. Monroe and Lydia shed genuine tears, and Martie and Len added diplomatically to the hubbub.  Pa must suspect no one of sympathy for the shameless Sally.

“To think, Pa, after all we’ve done for her!” sobbed Mrs. Monroe, and Lydia, wiping her nose and shaking her head, kept saying with reproachful firmness:  “I can’t believe it of Sally!  Why shouldn’t she tell one of us.  To stand up and be married all alone!”

Her father took the news exactly as might have been expected.  While there was hope of convicting Martie or Lydia of complicity, he questioned them sharply and sternly.  When this was gone, he swiftly worked himself into such a passion as his children had rarely seen before.  Sally and Joe were solemnly denounced, disinherited, and abandoned.  And any child of his who spoke to either should share their fate.

“Oh, Papa—­don’t!” quavered Lydia, as her father strode to the Bible, and with horrible precision inked from the register the record of Sally’s birth.  Mrs. Monroe looked terrified, and even Leonard was pale.  But Martie, to her own amazement, found a sudden calm scorn in her heart.  What a silly thing to do, just because poor little Sally married the boy she loved.  How dared Pa call himself a Christian while he regarded Sally’s downward step from a mere social level a disgrace!  And how cruel he was, playing upon poor Ma’s and Lydia’s feelings just for his own satisfaction.

“You understand me, don’t you, Martie?” he asked grimly.

“I suppose so.”  An ugly smile curved Martie’s lips.  Her lids were half lowered.

“Well—­remember it.  And never any one of you mention your sister’s name to me again!”

“No, Pa,” said four fervent voices.  Then they had dinner.

The next day the three women packed up Sally’s things; Lydia and her mother in tears, but Martie strangely content.  Something had happened at all events.  She put Sally’s baby sash and collar and other treasured rubbish in the package, with two scribbled lines pinned to them:  “Praying for you, darling.  Pa is furious.  The slipper is for luck.  Your M.”

And then the eventless days began to wheel by again.  Rose came home, and came to see Martie, and Martie dined at the Parkers’.  Rodney, though obviously blind to all women but his wife, was cordial and gallant to the guest and Rose took her up to her pretty, frilly bedroom, so that Martie might take off her hat and coat, and told Martie that Rod was the neatest man she had ever seen, such a fusser about his bath and his clothes.  On Rose’s bureau was a big photograph of Rodney in a silver frame, and on Rodney’s high dresser a charming photograph of Rose in her wedding gown.  When she was putting on her hat four hours later to be driven home by Rodney, Martie heard Rose’s wifely voice in the hall:  “You are a darling to do this, Rod!” The tone was that in which a man is praised by his women for a hard duty cheerfully done.  Martie was not surprised when Rose merrily confided to her that Rod wanted his wife to go along—­ the silly!—­and accompanied them on the short drive.