But as the days went by and the divorce of the young Mulkeys, and the new baby at Mrs. Hughie Wilson’s, and the Annual Strawberry Festival and Bazaar for the Church Debt came along to make the gossip about Sally and Joe of secondary interest, Sally’s mother and sister revived.  They came to take a bitter-sweet satisfaction in the sympathy and interest that were shown on all sides.

Martie was not often at home in these days.  “She fairly lives at the Library, and she takes long walks, I imagine, Ma,” Lydia said once.  “You know Martie misses—–­she’s lonely.  And then—­there was, of course, the feeling about Rodney.  It’s just Martie’s queer way of righting herself.”

But on the hot Wednesday morning that brought in July Martie, with a clear conscience, was baking gingerbread.  She had improved in manner and habit, of late, displaying an unwonted interest in the care of herself and her person, and an unwonted energy in discharging domestic duties.

She was buttering pans vigorously, and singing “The Two Grenadiers,” when Lydia came into the kitchen.

“Martie, Pa just came in the gate.  Isn’t that maddening!  We’ll have to give him something canned; he hates eggs.  Can’t you make some drop cakes of that batter so they’ll be done?”

“Sure I can!” Martie snatched a piece of paper to butter.  “But what brings him home?”

“Why, I haven’t the faintest—–­” Lydia was beginning, when her father’s voice came in a shout from the dining room: 

“Martie—­Martie—­Martie!”

Terror seized Martie, her mouth watered saltly, her knees touched, and a chill shook her.  The hot day turned bleak.  She and Lydia exchanged a sick look before Martie, trembling, crossed the pantry, littered by Lydia’s silver polish and rags, and went in to face the furious old man on the hearthrug.  Malcolm was quivering so violently that his own fear seemed to be that he would lose his voice before he had gained his information.  Martie was vaguely conscious that her mother, frightened and pale, was in the room, and that Len had come to the hall doorway.

“Martie,” said her father, breathing hard, “where were you yesterday afternoon?”

“At Alice Clark’s Five Hundred with Lyd—–­” the girl was beginning innocently.  He cut her short with an impatient shake of the head.

“I don’t mean yesterday!  Where were you on Monday?”

“Monday?  Why, Mama and I walked down to Bonestell’s.”

“Yes, we did, Pa!  Yes, we did!” quavered Mrs. Monroe.  “Oh, Pa, what is it?”

“And then what did you do?” he pursued blackly, turning to his wife.

“Why—­why, Martie said she was going to go over to Pittsville and back, just for the ride—­just to stay on the trolley, Pa!” explained his wife.

“Martie,” thundered her father, “when you went to Pittsville you saw your sister, didn’t you?”

Martie’s head was held erect.  She was badly frightened, but conscious through all her fear that there was a certain satisfaction in having the blow fall at last.