The little actress kissed Sally, and kissed Martie more than once, brimming over with interest and sympathy.

“Dearie, it ain’t much of a start for you, but it is a start!” said Mabel warmly over the head of the nursing baby.  “And you’ll get your living and your railroad fares out of it, anyway!  It’ll be an ackshal godsend to Mr. Cluett and me, for the children have took to you something very unusual.  We’ll have elegant times going around together, and you’ll never be sorry.”

These cheering sentiments Jesse echoed when he came in with Lloyd a few minutes later.

“Much depends upon our future contracts, Miss Monroe,” said he, “but I will go so far as to say this.  Should you some time desire to try the calling that Shakespeare honoured, the opportunity will not be lacking!”

This threw Sally, Martie, and Mabel into transports.  It now being after three o’clock tea was proposed.

And now Martie busied herself happily as one belonging to the little establishment.  Sally had taken rapturous possession of Leroy.  Mabel lighted the alcohol lamp.  Martie, delayed by the affectionate Bernadette, shook out the spotted cloth, and cut the stale cake.

They were all absorbed and chattering when Wallace Bannister opened the door.  At sight of him Martie straightened up, the long knife in one hand, Bernadette’s sticky little fingers clinging to the other.  The news was flung at him excitedly.  Martie had left home—­she was never going back—­she had only twenty dollars and an old coat and hat—­she was going to stay with Mabel for the present—–­

“What’s this sweet dream about staying with Mabel?” Wallace said, bewildered, reproachful, definite.  He came over to Martie and put one arm about her.  “Look here, folks,” he said, almost indignantly, “Martie’s my girl, aren’t you, Martie?  We’re going to be married right now, this afternoon; and hereafter what I do, she does—­and where I go, she goes!”

The love in his eyes, the love in all their watching faces, Martie never forgot.  Like a great river of warmth and sunshine it lifted her free of her dry, thirsty girlhood; she felt the tears of joy pressing against her eyes.  There was nothing critical, nothing calculating, nothing repressing here; her lover wanted her, just as she stood, penniless, homeless, without a dress except the blue gingham she wore!

The glory of it lighted with magic that day and the days to come.  They laughed over the pretty gipsy hat, over Len’s coat, over the need of borrowing Mabel’s brush and comb.  With Joe and Sally, they all dined together, and wandered about the village streets in the summer moonlight; then Martie went to bed, too happy and excited to sleep, in Bernadette’s room, wearing a much-trimmed nightgown of Mabel’s.  It had been decided that the marriage should take place in San Francisco, Wallace sensibly suggesting that there would be less embarrassing questioning there, and also that Martie’s money might be spent to better advantage in the city.