"No. But a boy is different," Mrs. Monroe answered as she had answered hundreds of times before. "Not that I approve of Len's actions, either," she added. "But a man can take care of himself, of course! Len's always late for meals," she went on. "Seems like he can't get it through his head that it makes a difference if you sit down when things are ready or when they're all dried up. But Pa's late anyway to-night, so it doesn't matter much!" Martie carried the bread on its ugly, heavy china plate in to the table, entering from the pantry just as her father came in from the hall. "Hello, Pa!" said the girl, placing the bread on the wrinkled cloth with housewifely precision. Malcolm Monroe gave his youngest daughter glance of lowering suspicion. But there was no cause for definite question, and Martie, straightening the salt-cellars lovingly, knew it. "Where's your sister?" her father asked discontentedly. "Upstairs, straightening her hair for dinner, I THINK." Martie was sweetly responsive. "But I can find out, Pa." "No matter. Here, take these things." Martie carried away the overcoat and hat, and hung them on the hat rack in the hall. "Joe Hawkes wants to know if you wish to pay him for driving you up, Pa," Sally said, coming in from the steps. Dutifully, meekly, she stood looking at her father. Lydia, coming in from the kitchen, gave him a respectful yet daughterly kiss. Singly and collectively there was no fault to be found with the Monroe girls to-night, even by the most exacting parent. "Your sister said you were upstairs, Sally," Malcolm said, narrowing his eyes. "So I was, Pa, but I came down to light the hall gas, and while I was there Joe came to the door," Sally answered innocently. "H'm! Well, you tell him to charge it." Malcolm sat down by the fireplace. There was no fire, the evening was not cold enough for one. He began to unlace his shoes. "Brother home?" he asked, glancing from Lydia, who was filling the water glasses from a glazed china pitcher, to Martie, who was dragging and pushing six chairs into place. "Not yet--no, sir!" the two girls said together unhesitatingly. Leonard could take care of himself under his father's displeasure. Martie added solicitously, "Would you like your slippers, Pa? I know where they are; by the chestard." He did not immediately answer, being indeed in no mood for a civil response, and yet finding no welcome cause for grievance. He sat, a lean, red-faced man, with a drooping black moustache, a high-bridged nose, and grizzled hair, looking moodily about him. "Get them--get them; don't stand staring there, Martie!" he burst out suddenly. Martie caught up his shoes and dashed upstairs.