tirelessly. In short, Mary was a marketable product, and Lydia was
not.

Cliff came to tell Lydia that he and Mary were to be married, and
that she had always been his best pal, and that their friendship had
been one of the sweetest things in his life. He kissed her in
brotherly fashion when he went away. Mary, lovely in bridal silks,
came to call on Lydia a few months later, and to this day when she
met faded, sweet Miss Monroe, the happy little wife and mother would
stop in street or shop and display little Ruth's charms, and chat
graciously for a few minutes. She always defended Lydia when the
Frost and Parker factions lamented that the Monroe girls were
inclined to be "common."

Martie thought of none of these things to-night. She thought of
Rodney Parker, and her heart floated upon clouds of rose-coloured
delight. Dreamily manipulating the cards, she remembered that
twilight meeting. "Are you still a little devil, Martie ... I'm
going to find out." Again they were walking slowly toward the
bridge. "How many people have told you you've grown awfully pretty,
Martie? ... You and I'll get together on the lists. ..."

The girl stopped, with arrested fingers and absent eyes. The rapture
of remembering thrilled her young body like a breath of flame blown
against her. She breathed with deep, slow respirations, holding her
breath with a risen breast, and letting it go with a long sigh. Now
and then she looked with an ashamed and furtive glance from her
mother's gray head and Lydia's busy fingers to Sally's absorbed face
under the opaque white globe of the gaslight, almost as if she
feared that the enchantment that held heart and brain would be