“Good-bye, Ma,” she said quickly.  In another instant she had crossed to the entrance hall, blindly snatched an old soft felt hat from the rack, caught up Len’s overcoat, and slipped into it, and was gone.  Born in that moment of unreasoning terror, her free soul went with her.

The streets were flooded with hot summer sunshine, the sky almost white.  Not a breeze stirred the thick foliage of the elm trees on Main Street as Martie walked quickly down to the Bank.

It was Rodney Parker who gave her her money; the original seventeen dollars and fifty cents had swelled to almost twenty-two dollars now.  Martie hardly saw the gallant youth who congratulated her upon her becoming gipsy hat; mechanically she slipped her money into a pocket, mechanically started for the road to Pittsville.

Five minutes later she boarded the half-past twelve o’clock trolley, coming in excited and exultant upon Sally who was singing quietly over a solitary luncheon.  The girls laughed and cried together.

“The funny thing is, I am as free as air!” Martie exclaimed, her cheeks glowing from the tea and the sympathy and the warm room.  “But I never knew it!  If Pa had gotten on that trolley, I think I would have fainted with shock.  But what could he do?  I am absolutely free, Sally—­with twenty-one dollars and eighty-one cents!”

“I wish you had a husband—–­” mused Sally.

“I’d rather have a job,” Martie said with a quick, bright flush nevertheless.  “But I think I know how to get one.  Mrs. Cluett is going to be playing steadily now, and after this engagement they’re going to try very hard to get booked in New York.  She’s got to have some one to look out for the children.”

“But Martie—–­” Sally said timidly, “you’d only be a sort of servant—–­”

“Well, that’s the only thing I know anything about,” Martie answered simply.  “It might lead to something—–­”

“Then you and Wallace aren’t—–?” Sally faltered.  “There’s nothing serious—–?”

Martie could not control the colour that swept up to the white parting of her hair, but her mouth showed new firmness as she answered gravely: 

“Sally—­I don’t know.  Of course, I like him—­how could I help it?  We’re awfully good chums; he’s the best chum I ever had.  But he never—­well, he never asked me.  Sally”—­Martie rested her elbows on the table, and her chin on her hands—­“Sally, would you marry him?”

“If I loved him I would,” said Sally.

“Yes, but did you know you loved Joe?” Martie asked.  Sally was silent.

“Well—­not so much—­before—­as after we were married,” she said hesitatingly, after a pause.

Martie suddenly sprang up.

“Well, I’m going to see Mrs. Cluett!”

“I’ll go, too,” said Sally, “and we’ll stop at the express office and tell Joe!”

Mrs. Cluett was alone with her children when the callers went in, and even Martie’s sensitive heart could have asked no warmer reception of her plan.