"But--but Martin!" Eliza managed to stammer. "He'll never be the wiser--unless you tell him," replied Jane merrily. "Come, Miss Lucy, take off your hat an' make yourself at home. Supper'll soon be ready, I guess." The phrase was a fortunate one, for it brought back to the disconcerted Howes the memory of their domestic prowess, a thing in which they took great pride. By nature they were hospitable, and here was a chance to exercise that long unexercised faculty. Mary bustled to the stove. "Yes," she answered, "the biscuits are in the oven, an' I was just makin' the tea." Then, as if emboldened by Jane's attitude, she added timidly: "We're real glad to see you, Miss Webster; don't think we ain't." "Yes," Eliza echoed, "we really are." The first shock of the adventure having passed, it was amazing to see with what rapidity the Howe sisters increased the warmth of their welcome. From the top shelf in the pantry they brought forth the _company preserves_; fruit cake was unearthed from the big stone crock in the dining-room closet; and, as a final touch to the feast, Jane beat up a foamy omelet and a prune whip. In their enjoyment they were like a group of children, an undercurrent of delight in the forbidden tinging their mirth. Lucy told stories of her western life, and the three women listened as if to the tales of Sir John Mandeville. The hours passed, twilight deepened, night fell, but the revelers heeded it not. What a sweet, wholesome evening it was! And how kindly, Lucy thought, were these simple souls whose feeling toward every breathing creature was so benign and sympathetic. Contrasted with the antagonistic atmosphere of the Webster house, this home was like paradise. It restored her faith in human nature and in Sefton Falls. Every one in the place was not, then, bitter and suspicious. What a comfort to know it! In the meantime Mary, having reached a pitch of hilarity almost unprecedented, was starting to tell a story when suddenly her face stiffened and, turning white, she half rose from her chair. There was a scuffling of feet in the hall and in another instant Martin Howe entered. "The fair wasn't worth my stayin' to," he explained from the doorsill, "so I came along home to-night instead of waitin' till to-morrow. Looks to me as if I was just in time for a snack of supper." Standing in the lamplight, his stern face softened by a smile and a glow of good humor, he was attractive to look upon. The firm countenance was lined, it is true, but the lines gave it strength and brought into harmony the clear eyes, resolute mouth, and well-molded chin. He had a fine smooth forehead from which his black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray, was tossed aside in picturesque abandon. Health and power spoke in every curve of the lithe frame and in the boyish grace with which he moved.