lips.

"I don't like this, Martie!" said her mother, shaking her head.
"What were you and Sally doing to be so late?"

"Oh, nothing," Martie said ashamedly. "I'm awf'ly sorry. I had no
idea what time it was!"

"Well, I certainly will have Pa speak to you, if you can't get into
the house before dark!" Mrs. Monroe said in mild protest. "Lyd
stopped her sewing to set the table."

"Len home?" Martie, now slicing bread, asked resentfully.

"No. But a boy is different," Mrs. Monroe answered as she had
answered hundreds of times before. "Not that I approve of Len's
actions, either," she added. "But a man can take care of himself, of
course! Len's always late for meals," she went on. "Seems like he
can't get it through his head that it makes a difference if you sit
down when things are ready or when they're all dried up. But Pa's
late anyway to-night, so it doesn't matter much!"

Martie carried the bread on its ugly, heavy china plate in to the
table, entering from the pantry just as her father came in from the
hall.

"Hello, Pa!" said the girl, placing the bread on the wrinkled cloth
with housewifely precision.

Malcolm Monroe gave his youngest daughter glance of lowering