on the centre table; Martie pushed them back for her game.

She looked a mere overgrown, untidy girl, to whose hair, belt,
finger-nails, and shoes she might have attended with advantage. But
Martie was a bride to-night, walking the realm of Romance.

She had never had an admirer, nor had Sally. Neither girl admitted
it, but it was true. Poor Lydia had had a taste of the joy of life,
and a full measure of the sorrow, seven years ago, when Clifford
Frost, twelve years her senior, at thirty-one the perfect match, had
singled her out for his favour. Martie and Sally could remember how
pleasantly exciting it was to have Cliff Frost so much at the house,
how Lydia laughed and bloomed! Lydia had been just Sally then: her
age, and her double.

What had gone wrong, the younger girls sometimes wondered. Pa had
been pompous, of course; Cliff had not been made exactly
comfortable, here by this marble mantel. Lydia had quavered out her
happy welcome, her mother had fluttered and smiled. And Cliff had
given her candy, and taken her to the Methodist Bazaar and the Elks'
Minstrels, and had given her a fan. The candy was eaten long ago,
and the dance music and the concerts long forgotten in the village,
but Lydia still had the fan.

For a year, for two, for three, the affair went on. There was a
cloud in the sky before Mary Canfield came to visit Mrs. Frost, but
with her coming, joy died in Lydia's heart. Mary was made for
loving; Mary's mother and father and aunts and cousins all made it
easy for any man to fall in love with her. Mary danced, played the
piano, chattered French, changed from one pretty frock to another,