Pa says come at once told Lydia he would give you and children home as long as he lives sends his love merry Christmas darling SALLY. Martie went back to the kitchen, and put her head down on the little table and cried. Wallace did not come home for Christmas Day, nor for many days. Teddy rejoiced in his coaster while his mother went soberly and swiftly about her plans. Perhaps Pa had realized that she did not actually have a cent, and was sending a check by mail. The perfect telegram would have been just a little more than perfect, if he had said so. But if he were not sending money, she must go nevertheless. She must give up this house on January tenth, landlord and grocer must trust her for the overdue rent and bill. If they would not, well, then they must have her arrested; that was all. The fare to California would be less than two hundred dollars. She was going to borrow that from John. Martie herself was surprised at the calm with which she came to this decision. It had all the force of finality to her. She cared for the hurt to her pride as little as she cared for what Rose Parker would think of her ignominious return, as little as she cared for what the world thought of a wife who deliberately left the father of her children to his fate. Early in January she planned to take the children with her, and find John in his office. That very day the tickets should be bought. If Wallace cared enough for his family to come home in the meantime, she would tell him what she was doing. But Martie hoped that he would not. The one possible stumbling-block in her path would be Wallace's objection; the one thing of which she would not allow herself to think was that he MIGHT, by some hideous whim, decide to accompany them. Thinking of these things, she went about the process of house-cleaning and packing. The beds, the chairs, the china and linen and blankets must bring what they could. On the third day of the year, in his room, Martie, broom in hand, paused to study Wallace's "chestard." That must go, too. It had always been a cheaply constructed article, with one missing caster that had to be supplied by a folded wedge of paper. Still, in a consignment with other things, it would add something to the total. Martie put her hand upon it, and rocked it. As usual, the steadying wedge of paper was misplaced. She stooped to push the prop into position again; noticed that it was a piece of notepaper, doubly folded; recognized John Dryden's handwriting-- The room whirled about her as she straightened the crumpled and discoloured sheet, and smoothed it, and grasped at one glance its contents: DEAR MR. BANNISTER: I am distressed to hear of Mrs. Bannister's illness, and can readily understand that she must not be burdened or troubled now. Please let me know how she progresses, and let me be your banker again, if the need arises. I am afraid she does not know how to save herself. Faithfully yours, JOHN DRYDEN. The date was mid-December.