visits to his aunt in New York, he had changed only to improve!

Even in this first informal greeting it was Martie to whom he
devoted his special attention. Sally was usually considered the
prettier of the two, but Martie was lovely to-night. Rodney turned
with them, and they walked to the bridge together. Sally and Grace
ahead.

The wind had fallen with the day, the air was mild and warm, and in
the twilight even Monroe had its charm. Flowers were blooming in
many dooryards, yellow light streamed hospitably across the
gravelled paths, and in the early darkness women were waiting in
porches or by gates, and whirling hoses over the lawns were drawing
all the dark, hidden perfumes into the damp night air.

"You've not changed much, Martie--except putting up your hair. I
mean it as a compliment!" said Rodney, eagerly, in his ready, boyish
voice.

"You've changed a good deal; and I mean that as a compliment, too!"
Martie returned, with her deep laugh.

His own broke out in answer. He thought her delightful. The creamy
skin, the burnished hair that was fanned into an aureole under her
shabby hat, the generous figure with its young curves, had helped to
bring about in Rodney Parker a sweet, irrational surrender of
reason. He had never been a reasonable boy. He knew, of course, that
Martie Monroe was not in his sisters' set, although she was a
perfectly NICE girl, and to be respected. Martie was neither one
thing nor the other. With Grace, indeed, who was frankly beneath the