"Pa," said Martie simply. Sally's bright face clouded. She sent a kiss to Ma and darling Lyd. She and Joe would come back to Monroe in September, and then she would come see Pa and make him forgive her. Tell him she still loved him! Martie delivered none of these airy messages. She secretly marvelled at the happiness that could blind Sally to a memory of Pa, and Pa's stubbornness. "Listen, Martie," said Sally, when for a moment the sisters were alone, "it wasn't so sudden as you think, my marrying Joe!" She stopped, interrupted by some thought, and added impulsively, "Isn't it STRANGE, Mart, that we might have missed each other; it makes us both just SHIVER to think of it! Well"--and with a visible effort the little wife brought herself down from a roseate cloud to realities again--"if--if Lyd had married Cliff Frost," she said uncertainly, "I never should have DARED marry Joe!" "Or if I had married Rodney Parker, Sally?" Martie added steadily. "Well--" The colour flew to Sally's face. "As it was," she went on a little hurriedly, "I just--couldn't bear to go on and on, it made me desperate! And I thought Pa and Ma's way is no good, our house never seems to have much happiness in it--and I'm going to get OUT! There never was a place like this for good times, and babies, and jokes, and company to dinner!" smiled Sally, looking about the Hawkeses' parlour triumphantly. But then Sally was born devoid of a social sense, mused Martie, walking home. What would life be without it--she wondered. No affectations, no barriers, no pretenses-- "Flout me not, Sweet!" said some one at her side. She looked up into the beaming eyes of Wallace Bannister. "Don't you remember me--I'm the city feller that came here breakin' all hearts awhile back!" "You idiot!" Martie laughed, too. "I thought you were miles away!" "Well, judging by your expression, darling, you were miles away, too," said the irrepressible Wallace. "How are you, Brunhilde? Ich liebe dich! Yes'm, we ought to be miles away, but to tell you the honest truth, the season is simply ROTTEN here on the coast. We've bust up, for the moment, but dry those tears. Here's my contract for seven weeks in San Francisco--seven plays. Sixty bones per week; pretty neat, what? We begin rehearsing in July, open August eighth, and if it's a go, go on indefinitely. The Cluetts and I are in this--the rest of the company's gone flooey. Meanwhile, I have three weeks to wait, and I'm staying with my aunt in Pittsville studying like mad." "And what are you doing in Monroe?" Martie said contentedly, as they wandered along. "I came here a week ago to change some shoes," said Wallace, "and I saw you. So to-day I came and made you a formal call." "You did NOT!" Martie ejaculated, laughing.