Martie, the Unconquered. Kathleen Thompson Norris

Baxter girls. Flora only stayed a minute, and when she and Lou went out, she says, 'Lou, has Annie Poett been here since he was taken sick?' and Lou began to cry and said that her mother answered the telephone when Annie called up last week, and it seems Annie asked was Joe Lowney sick and Mrs. King said 'No.'"

      "For heaven's sake!" Mrs. Monroe said, incredulous and absorbed.

      "Well, that's what Flora said. But mind you, Ma, on Tuesday night little Hildegarde King went to the door, and she says that Annie Poett came in and went upstairs—Lou was dishing supper, you know the Allens and Mrs. Gorman were there for the funeral, and they were all at table—and, by the way, Flora says that Lou says that Lizzie Alien was there in that house for three days—that is, it was nearly three days, for they stayed for supper Wednesday night—and that Lizzie never raised her hand to ONE THING, just did nothing but sit around and cry, and say what a good brother Joe was!"

      "Did you ever!" commented Mrs. Monroe.

      "Anyway, nobody got up from the table, and all they had for it was Hildegarde's word, and she wasn't sure it was Annie. Grandma Lowney was asleep—they'd gotten her to lie down; she took more care of Joe than any one else, you know, and she sat up both nights. Clara Baxter says she looks awful; she doesn't believe she'll get over it."

      "I shouldn't wonder!" said Mrs. Monroe with a click of commiseration.

      "Lou told Flora that the night Joe was dying, Grandma broke out and said to Paul King that if Joe hadn't gone with him out to Deegan Point two weeks ago, he never would have had that chill. But Flora says … "

      The low voices went on and on, even after Malcolm Monroe came in, thoroughly tired and a little chilly, to take his own chair by the fire. Sally, deposed, came to sit opposite Martie, and idly watched the solitaire.

      "Isn't Rodney Parker nice?" Sally whispered cautiously, after a while.

      "I think he is!" Martie answered hardily; but the happy colour came to her cheeks.

      "I'll bet all the girls go crazy about him!" Sally submitted.

      A faint pang of jealousy, a vague sense of helplessness, seized upon Martie. He had been so cordially gay and delightful with her; would he be that with all the girls? Would Florence Frost, three years older than he, fall a victim to his charm as quickly as she, Martie, had fallen? Martie had mentioned Florence Frost this afternoon, and by subtle, instinctive, girlish reasoning had found consolation in his reply. "She's my sister's friend; she's awfully smart, you know—books and all that!" Rodney honestly felt an entire indifference to this admirable young neighbour, and Martie understood his remark as meaning exactly that.

      She went on with her patience, the particular game known as the "Idle Year." Sometimes Sally touched or mentioned a card. Sometimes, as a final problem presented itself, the girls consulted as to the wisdom of this play or that. Between games Martie shuffled vigorously, and they talked more freely.

      "I think he's crazy about you," said Sally.

      "Oh, Sally, don't be such a fool!"

      "I'm not fooling. Look at the way he turned back and walked with us, and he never took his eyes off you!" Sally, somewhat dashed for an instant by Martie's well-assumed scorn, gained confidence now, as the new radiance brightened her sister's face. "Why, Mart," she said boldly, "there is such a thing as love at first sight!"

      Love at first sight! Martie felt a sort of ecstatic suffocation at the words. An uncontrollable smile twitched at her mouth, she recommenced her game briskly. Her heart was dancing.

      "Lissun; do you suppose Ma would ever let us have a party here?" Martie presently ventured.

      Sally pursed her lips and shook a doubtful head.

      "Oh, but, Sally, I don't mean a real party, of course. Just about twenty—" Martie began.

      "Lemonade and cake?" Sally supplied.

      "Well—coffee and sandwiches, Rodney seemed to think. And punch."

      "Punch! Martie! You know Pa never would."

      "I don't see why not," Martie said discontentedly, slapping down her cards noisily. Sally spoke only the truth, yet it was an irritating truth, and Martie would have preferred a soothing lie.

      "What about music for dancing?" Sally asked, after a thoughtful interval.

      "Angela Baxter," Martie said with reviving hope.

      "But she charges two dollars; at least she did for the Baptist euchre."

      "Well—that's not so much!"

      "We could make those cute brown-bread sandwiches Rose had," Sally mused, warming to the possibility. "And use the Canton set. Nobody in town has china like ours, anyway!"

      "Oh, Sally," Martie was again fired, "we could have creamed chicken and sandwiches—that's all anybody ever wants! And it's so much sweller than messy sherbets and layer cake. And we could decorate the rooms with greens—"

      "Our rooms are lovely, anyway!" Sally stated with satisfaction.

      "Why, with the folding doors open, and fires in both grates, they would be perfectly stunning!" Martie spoke rapidly, her colour rising, her blue eyes glittering like stars. "Of course, the back room isn't furnished, but we could scatter some chairs around in there; we'll need all the room for dancing, anyway!"

      "We couldn't dance on this carpet," Sally submitted, perplexed, as she glanced at the parlour's worn floor-covering.

      "No, but we could in the back room—that floor's bare—and in the hall," Martie answered readily. "You see it's the first of a sort of set of dances; the next would be at the Frosts' or the Barkers', and it would mean that we were right in things—"

      "Oh, it would be lovely if we could do it!" Sally agreed with a sigh. "Play the Queen on here, Martie, and then you'll have a space."

      "Do you propose to play that game much longer, girls?" their father asked, looking patiently over his book.

      "Are we disturbing you, Pa?" Martie countered politely.

      "Well—but don't stop on my account. Of course the sound of cards and voices isn't exactly soothing. However, go on with your game—go on with your game! If I can't stand it, I'll go back to the library."

      "Oh, no, Pa, it's too cold in there; this is the time of year you always get that cold in your nose," Mrs. Monroe said pleadingly.

      "I was going right up, anyway," Sally said with an apologetic air and a glance toward the door.

      "I'll go, too!" Martie jumbled the cards together, and rose. "It's nearly ten, anyway."

      A moment later she and Sally went out of the room together. But while Sally went straight upstairs, to light the bedroom gas, fold up the counterpane, and otherwise play the part of the good sister she was, Martie noiselessly opened the side door and stepped out for a breath of the sweet autumn night.

      There was a spectacularly bright moon, somewhere; Martie could not see it, but beyond the sunken garden she caught glimpses of silvery brightness on the roofs of Monroe. Even here, under the dark trees, pools of light had formed and the heavy foliage was shot with shafts of radiance. A strong wind was clicking the eucalyptus leaves together, and carrying bits of rubbish here and there about the yard. Martie could hear voices, the barking of dogs, and the whine of the ten o'clock trolley, down in the village.

      The gate slammed. Leonard came in.

      "Pa tell you to watch for me?" he asked fearfully.

      "No." Martie, sitting on the top step and hugging her knees, answered indifferently. "It's not ten yet. What you been doing?"

      "Oh, nothing!" Len passed her and went in.

      As a matter of fact, he had called for his chum, sauntered into the candy store for caramels, joined the appreciative group that watched a drunken man forcibly ejected from Casserley's saloon, visited the pool room and witnessed a game or two, gone