The only thing that marred the quiet domestic beauty of the scene at
the time of this story was the place where Adam Ward had lived with his
little family before material prosperity removed them to their estate
on the hill. Joining the Martin home on the east, the old house,
unpainted, with broken shutters, shattered windows, and sagging porch,
in its setting of neglected, weed-grown yard and tumble-down fences,
was pathetic in its contrast.

Since the death of her mother, Mary Martin had been the housekeeper for
her father and her brother. She was a wholesome, clear-visioned girl,
with an attractive face that glowed with the good color of health and
happiness. And if at times, when the Ward automobile passed, there was
a shadow of wistfulness in Mary's eyes, it did not mar for long the
expression of her habitually contented and cheerful spirit. She worked
at her household tasks with a song, entered into the pleasures of her
friends and neighbors with hearty delight, and was known, as well, to
many poverty-stricken homes in the Flats in times of need.

More than one young workman in the Mill had wanted Pete Martin's girl
to help him realize his dreams of home building. But Mary had always
answered "No."

Mary's brother Charlie was a strong-shouldered, athletic workman, with
a fine, clean countenance and the bearing of his military experience.

At supper, that evening, the young woman remarked casually, "Helen Ward
went by this afternoon. I was working in the roses. I thought for a
moment she was going to stop--at the old house, I mean."

Captain Charlie's level gaze met his sister's look. "Did she see you?"