flying, sooty particles clinging to wet surfaces everywhere. Lydia sat packing cold hominy in empty baking-powder tins; to be sliced and fried for the noon meal. Mrs. Monroe, preferring an informal

er own bread, spending twice the energy requ

pot, and entered a spirited claim for cream. It was Saturday morning, when Leonard slept lat

cup of coffee when he's go

enly serious. "I'm going to take my cof

you are not!"

t upset your health!" her

ed themselves comfortably at one end of the long table. While they ate, dipping their toast in the coffee, buttering and

out a bitter, acrid smell. Against the windows the soft mist pressed, showing a

over their own meal. If he did not actually ask them to fetch butter or water, or if he could find no reasonable excuse for fault-finding, he would surely introduce some dangerous topic; lure them into admissions, stand ready to pursue any clue. He did not like to see young girls care-free and contented; time enough for that later on! And as years robbed him of actual digniti

down the back stairs, was being stealthily regaled by his mother on a late meal

his cool forehead. "Your paper's right there b

hich she might lay before him the younger girls' hopes. It was part of Lydia's concient

ing some of their friends in some evening, would you? I t

dear?" Malcolm

." Lydia was always s

ed a little. He

ner,

, "or games," she substituted hurriedly. "You see the other gi

air costs mo

much,

fixed upon the headlines of h

setting the whole house like a pack of wolves! Upon my wo

e in a long while,

ie to speak to me about it in a da

tive kiss, leaving him comfortable with his fire, his

about the dance," she

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-e

against Lydia's mouth. But Lydia expressed a grateful negat

n animated discussion followed. Grace was a problem. Dared they ignore Grace? There was a lamentable preponderan

kitchen table, with her dustpan resting three feet away from the cold mutton that lay there. Mrs. Monroe's hair was in some disorder, and a streak of black from the stove lay across one of her lean, greas

wn town, Sally?"

would. We can if yo

, and ask one of the men there if they aren't ever

e garden gate slam behind them without a pleasant yet undefined sense of freedom. The sun was slowly but steadily gaining on the fog, a bright yellow blur showed the exact spot where shining light must s

chattering incessantly. Their bright, interested eyes did not miss the tiniest detail. The

and called out to them that the church concert

em ten minutes in eager, unimportant conversation. Her p

, Martha Monroe. A little bird was telling me that I'll ha

r we met Rod Parker?" Mart

I do hope you are going to marry; no, don't laugh! I don't m

re the older," Martie said, with avert

k of what the next ten years MEAN for us, it just makes me sick! Either we'll marry and h

b like Miss Fanny," Martie said

it! But I believe I COULD manage a little house, and children, and I'd like that! I wouldn't mind being poor-I never

on the sidewalk, the two sisters found themselves facing each other. They burst into a jo

arrier of barrels and planks, laying a cement sidewalk in front. They passed the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store, its unwashed windows jammed with pyramids of dry-looking chocolates, post cards, and jewellery, and festoons of trashy embroidery, and the corner fruit stands heaped with tomatoes and sprawling grapes. At the Palace Candy Store a J

about to smile into the eyes of Father Martin. A tall spare old man, with enormous glasses on his twinkling blue eyes,

mother's well? Well, and wha

artie giggled. "Looking for hus

ss vases. They went on to the shoe shop, to the grocery, to the post-office, past the express office, where Joe Hawkes sat whittling in the sun. They paused to study with eager interest the flaring posters on the fences that announced the impending arrival of Poul

tered window to window, and with that new, sweet suffocation at her heart she had found the object of her searching-the satiny crest of Rodney Parker's sleek hair, the fresh-coloured pr

e. She had a thrilling vision of herself entering that bank, a privileged person, "young Mrs. Rodney." Old Judge Parker coming out of his private office with his

in each girl's name. This was four years ago; neither one ever dreamed of touching the precious nest-egg; to them it represented wealth. Len had no bank account, nor had Mama nor Lydia. All Martie's dreams of the future began, included, or ended on the expenditure of this s

ver they executed small commissions for him, and to wheedle from him stray quarter and half dollars. Lydia had only to watch for the favourable moment to get whatever she asked, and with Leo