A moment later, Amy, Fritz, and Elinor surrounded Martine, protesting against her departure, urging her to go with them to Memorial, to return with them to Fritz' rooms, to watch the illuminations; in short, to do anything but go home. Martine, however, was firm, and when she started off for the yard with Mrs. Redmond, Mr. Barton went with them. "It is a glimpse of fairyland," said Martine, as they strolled about through the crowd. "Why do these lines of lanterns make the yard look ten times its usual size? Why do these red lights make every one seem beautiful? Why--" "Let me continue," interrupted Emmons Barton. "_Why_ won't you come over to Memorial? _Why_ must you hurry home?" "Because I am Cinderella," responded Martine gayly. "Because I should hate to lose my glass slipper. Come, Mrs. Redmond, I am sure our car is waiting, if Mr. Barton will only find it for us." CHAPTER XVIII AT YORK The morning after her arrival at York, Martine stood at the door of the little red farm-house. The air was fresh and cool, a delightful contrast to the last day or two of heat in the city that she had just left. A slight mist from the river softened without hiding the view. Through the rolling meadows that stretched before her across the road, she saw the thread of river winding its way toward the sea. The ocean itself was not in sight, though it made itself known in a certain agreeable saltness of odor that Martine quickly recognized. Martine gazed across the meadows with a certain pleasant expectancy, such as any young girl in a new place is likely to feel. The houses in the distance looked attractive. "I wonder if they are summer cottages, or if people really live there. I wonder who has this large house just across the road. It is rather handsome. I hope there are girls in the family. It must be very pleasant there, the garden seems to run down to the river. Our garden needs attention," she concluded, taking a few steps toward the flower beds, where a few stray geraniums and untrimmed rose-bushes were the sole adornments. After a few rather futile efforts to improve the appearance of these beds, Martine turned toward the house. The red cottage, as she faced it, was far from imposing. "It's like some of the roadside cottages I have seen in England and Wales. It isn't much larger. I'm glad that it is red instead of white--well I should have had to live in it just the same, but I should have hated a white house. A coat of red paint always makes a house seem picturesque," she concluded. At this moment Angelina, in a pink calico in which she looked more gypsy-like than ever, ran down the little slope to meet Martine. "Isn't it lovely," she said, "to be so near the road. We can see the electric cars pass by the corner over there, and hear the train. Didn't you notice the whistle this morning? I did, and it made me think of the city right off." "I don't often hear an engine whistle in the city."