"I often look back," Rodney went on. "And I think sometimes that there couldn't have been a sweeter friendship than yours and mine! What good times we had! And you and I always understood each other; always, in a way, brought out the best of each other." He looked about; no one else was in hearing. "Now, I've got the sweetest little wife in the world," he said. "I worked hard, and I've prospered. But there's nothing in my life, Martie, that I value more than I do the memory of those old days; you believe that, don't you?" "Indeed I do," Martie said cordially, over a deep amusement that was half scorn. Rodney's next remark was made in a low, intense tone and accompanied by a direct look. "You've grown to be a beautiful woman, Martie!" "I have?" she laughed uncomfortably. "And Cliff," he said steadily, "is a lucky fellow!" He had noticed it, then? It must be--it must be so! But Martie could not assume the implied dignity. "Cliff is a dear!" she said lightly, warmly. "Rose has seen this coming for a long time," Rodney pursued. "Rose is the greatest little matchmaker!" This was the final irony, thought Martie. To have Rose credited with this change in her fortunes suddenly touched her sense of humour. She did not speak. "The past is the past," said Rodney. "You and I had our boy-and-girl affair--perhaps it touched us a little more deeply than we knew at the time; but that's neither here nor there! But in any case, you know that you haven't a warmer or a more devoted friend than I am-you do know that, don't you?-and that if ever I can do anything for you, Martie, I'll put my hand in the fire to do it!" And with his eyes actually a little reddened, and his heart glowing with generous affection, Rodney lightly pressed her hand, laughed, blinked, and turned away. A moment later she heard him call Rose "Dearest," as he capably held her dust-coat for his wife, and capably buttoned and straightened it. They were starting. The three cars got away in a straggling line, trailed each other through Main Street, and separated for the eleven-mile run. Martie was listening with a half-smile to the children's eager chatter, and thinking vaguely that Clifford might ask her to-day, or might not ask her for three years, when a half-shy, half-husky aside from him, and a sudden exchange of glances ended the speculation once and for all. "Makes me feel a little bit out of it, seeing all the boys with their wives," he said, with a rueful laugh. "Well, DOESN'T it?" she agreed cordially, and she added, in a thoughtful voice: "Nothing like happy married life, is there, Cliff?" "You said it," he answered soberly. "I guess you were pretty happy, Martie?" he questioned delicately.