Martie and Rod were walking, and Martie, before she went, had said
something vague about coming back at half-past four.

Lydia, abashed, gave up her plan for tea. But she did what she could
for Martie, by inveigling her father into a walk. Martie and Rod
came into an empty house, for Sally was out, no one knew where, and
Mrs. Monroe had gone to church where vespers were sung at four
o'clock through the winter.

Martie's colour was high from fast walking in the cold wind, her
eyes shone like sapphires, and her loosened hair, under an old
velvet tam-o'-shanter cap, made a gold aureole about her face.
Rodney, watching her mount the little hill to the graveyard with a
winter sunset before her, had called her "Brunhilde," and he had
been talking of grand opera as they walked home.

Enchanted at finding the house deserted, she very simply took him
into the kitchen. The kettle was fortunately singing over a sleeping
fire; Rodney sliced bread and toasted it, while Martie, trying to
appear quite at her ease, but conscious of awkward knees and elbows
just the same, whisked from pantry to kitchen busily, disappearing
into the dining room long enough to lay the tea cups and plates at
one end of the big table.

Only a few moments before the little feast was ready, Lydia came
rather anxiously into the kitchen. She greeted Rodney smilingly,
seizing the first opportunity for an aside to say to Martie:

"Pa's home, Mart. And he doesn't like your having Rod out here. I
walked him up to the Tates', but no one was home except Lizzie.