suspicion. But there was no cause for definite question, and Martie,
straightening the salt-cellars lovingly, knew it.

"Where's your sister?" her father asked discontentedly.

"Upstairs, straightening her hair for dinner, I THINK." Martie was
sweetly responsive. "But I can find out, Pa."

"No matter. Here, take these things." Martie carried away the
overcoat and hat, and hung them on the hat rack in the hall.

"Joe Hawkes wants to know if you wish to pay him for driving you up,
Pa," Sally said, coming in from the steps. Dutifully, meekly, she
stood looking at her father. Lydia, coming in from the kitchen, gave
him a respectful yet daughterly kiss. Singly and collectively there
was no fault to be found with the Monroe girls to-night, even by the
most exacting parent.

"Your sister said you were upstairs, Sally," Malcolm said, narrowing
his eyes.

"So I was, Pa, but I came down to light the hall gas, and while I
was there Joe came to the door," Sally answered innocently.

"H'm! Well, you tell him to charge it." Malcolm sat down by the
fireplace. There was no fire, the evening was not cold enough for
one. He began to unlace his shoes. "Brother home?" he asked,
glancing from Lydia, who was filling the water glasses from a glazed
china pitcher, to Martie, who was dragging and pushing six chairs
into place.