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Updated: June 22, 2025
Even Sally demurred, observing that people would talk. But one or two persons approved, and if Martie had needed encouragement, it would not have been wanting. One of her sympathizers was Dr. Ben. The two had grown to be good friends, and Martie's boy was as much at home in the little crowded garden and the three-peaked house as Sally's children were.
Lydia was pale, too, but it was the paleness of fatigue, and had nothing in common with Martie's starry pallor. "Martie, do you know what time it is?" "Lyd I know it's late!" "Late? It's two o'clock." "Not really?" Martie bunched her splendid hair with a white hand under each ear, and faced her affronted sister innocently.
"You know what it is: you suggested it!" "I did?" "You said it would make a good play." Martie's thin cheek dimpled, she widened her eyes. "I don't remember!" "It was when I was reading Strickland's 'Queens. You said that this one's life would make a good play." "Oh, I do dimly remember!" She knotted her brows. "Mary Mary Isabelle an Italian girl? wasn't it?"
No, you won't need it but it's so pretty " She laid an arm about Martie's waist as they went downstairs. "You've heard that we've had trouble with the girls?" Rose said, in a confidential whisper. "Yes. Ida and May after all Rodney had done for them, too! He did EVERYTHING. It was over a piece of property that their grandfather had left their father I don't know just what the trouble was!
And swiftly the city claimed Martie's heart and mind and body, swiftly she partook of its freedom, of its thousand little pleasures for the poor, of its romance and pathos and ugliness and beauty. Even to the seasoned New Yorkers she met, she seemed to hold some key to what was strange and significant.
You see, I understand you, Martie, and I know we seem awfully small and petty here, but since we ARE in Monroe, why, isn't it better not to give any one a chance to talk? Well, about the picnic! Ida and May always bring cake; I'll take the fried chicken; and Mrs. Ellis makes a delicious salad " Martie's heart was beating high, and two little white lines marked the firm closing of her lips.
But Martie sat on, musing, trying to catch the inference that she knew she had missed from Lydia's tirades. Lydia was furious about the sale of the house, of course but this new note ? In a rush, comprehension came. Alone in the dark old dining room, in the disorder of the Sunday suppertable, Martie's cheeks were dyed a bright, conscious crimson.
For long before the tangled negotiations that surrounded the sale of the old Monroe place were completed, Martie's thoughts were absorbed by a new and tremendous consideration: Clifford Frost was paying her noticeable attention. Monroe saw this, of course, before she did. Without realizing it, Martie still kept a social gulf between herself and the Frost and Parker families.
"Well, sir then a bargain's a bargain!" he said in great satisfaction. "I've been telling myself for several days that you liked me enough to try it, but when it came right down to it I well, I was just about scared blue!" Martie's happy laugh rang out. She laid her smooth fingers over his big ones, on the wheel, for a second.
But after breakfast Martie found Lydia crying into one of the aprons that Were hanging in the side-entry. "It's nothing!" she gulped as Martie's warm arms went about her. "Only only I can't bear to have Ma forgotten already! You heard how Pa spoke-so short and so cold!" "Oh, Lyddy, DARLING!" Martie protested, half-amused, half-sympathetic. Lydia straightened herself resentfully.
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