For the gracious permission Lydia gave him an appreciative kiss,
leaving him comfortable with his fire, his newspaper, and his
armchair, as she went on her errand.

"Pa was terribly sweet about the dance," she told Martie and Sally.

Belle was now deep in breakfast dishes, and the two girls had gone
out into the foggy dooryard with the chickens' breakfast. A flock of
mixed fowls were clucking and pecking over the bare ground under the
willows. Martie held the empty tin pan in one hand, in the other was
a half-eaten cruller. Sally had turned her serge skirt up over her
shoulders as a protection against the cool air, exposing a shabby
little "balmoral."

"Oh, Lyd, you're an angel!" Martie said, holding the cruller against
Lydia's mouth. But Lydia expressed a grateful negative with a shake
of her head; she never nibbled between meals.

She retailed the conversation with her father. Martie and Sally
became fired with enthusiasm as they listened. An animated
discussion followed. Grace was a problem. Dared they ignore Grace?
There was a lamentable preponderance of girls without her. All their
lists began and ended with, "Well, there's Rodney and his friends--
that's two--"

The day was as other days, except to Martie. When the chickens were
fed, she and Sally idled for perhaps half an hour in the yard, and
then went into the kitchen. Belle, sooty and untidy, had paused at
the kitchen table, with her dustpan resting three feet away from the
cold mutton that lay there. Mrs. Monroe's hair was in some disorder,