In the weeks immediately after the recital Martine and Priscilla were both so occupied with their studies and their little duties and pleasures that they saw less than usual of each other. Martine, on whom care sat rather lightly, ceased for the time to worry about her father.

She noticed, it is true, that her mother did not read her father's last letter, which arrived about a week after her conversation with Priscilla.

"Is everything going on properly?" she asked eagerly, as her mother folded the letter within its envelope.

"I hope for the best, dear. It seems too bad that your father had to go away at this time. It was a long, hard journey, and there are still difficulties before him."

"Oh, I wish we could help, Lucian and I, I mean."

"You can help; indeed you have helped me immensely, by being bright and cheerful and—"

"Yes, and economical. Once in a while it seems strange to have to stop and think of money. I bought two-dollar seats for the Paderewski matinee, although the three-dollar seats were much better, but I thought that as I had invited Priscilla and Grace—as well as Miss Mings—our history teacher—and as we were to go to the Somerset afterwards, I ought to be economical."

Even Mrs. Stratford smiled at Martine's intended economy, as she said, "But my dear, I think perhaps it would have been wiser to pass this matinee by. You are not fond of instrumental music, and the whole thing means spending more money than you ought to spend in this way at present."

"Then I'll take it out of my allowance. Of course I meant to anyway. I don't honestly care much about Paderewski myself, but Priscilla does, and most of the girls are wild about him, and everyone is going, so I should feel very silly to have to say I hadn't been."

"Very well, my dear, I cannot criticise you, for I gave you my permission, but in future you must think more about the cost of things."

"Yes, mamma! indeed I often think of economizing, for even though it is pleasant here, living in an apartment with only Angelina and a cook is very different from being in our house at home, and I know we're here to save money. How some of the people we know would stare to see us trying to help with the work! why, the week the cook left I actually saw you washing dishes."

Mrs. Stratford smiled faintly; some of her Boston experiences had been trying, but she had said little to Martine about them.

"So far as I am concerned," added Martine, "I have enjoyed everything in Boston. I have learned lots about cooking, and if it wasn't for school, sometimes I think we could manage just with Angelina. But I am going to economize so that papa will hardly know me when he comes home in June. I can get along with only one tailor-made suit, and perhaps two or three new silks this spring. But I do hope we can plan something worth while for the summer. Wouldn't you like the Yellowstone, with our own special guide, papa, Lucian, and all of us, and I could invite Priscilla, and we might have a few weeks in one of those big hotels among the mountains. What sport it would be!"

Martine paused, almost out of breath.

"We can't make many plans until we hear from your father," replied Mrs. Stratford, quietly, "but what you suggest isn't exactly in the direction of economy."

"Oh, I didn't suppose we'd have to economize always. Then you ought to speak to Lucian, mamma, he has ordered a new touring car."

"That is the worst of indulging a boy from the cradle," and Mrs. Stratford sighed. "Last year your father told him he might have a new car this spring, and Lucian thinks he's very moderate because he is keeping within the two-thousand-dollar limit. I don't like to stop him, for if things come out as well as they may, he can have it."

"Two thousand dollars!" exclaimed Martine, to whom figures usually did not mean much. "That is a large sum! Why, it would put a boy through college."

She was thinking of Balfour Airton, and all that this amount of money would do for him.

"Mrs. Blair," continued Martine's mother, "calls Lucian very moderate in his college expenses. He stands well in his classes, too. She says that Philip spent three times as much."

"And he had to leave Harvard without a degree!"

"He has made it up since, and he is doing splendidly in business."

"Edith says it's Pamela's influence that has done so much for him."

"He was lucky enough to find a girl like her to marry him."

"She certainly is a superior woman—even if she is country-born and a college graduate, as Mrs. Blair would say," responded Martine, smiling. "If only they lived nearer, I should spend half my time with cousin Pamela—if she'd let me, but Lincoln seems far away in the winter. That's one thing we'd gain from Lucian's new car; those out-of-town places would seem close at hand."

Lucian, when Martine spoke to him about his car, admitted that he had ordered it, and he tried to laugh away her concern over family affairs. But his efforts in this direction were not really successful, and he saw that his sister was still troubled in spite of his argument that, if things were really going badly, he would have heard more from his father.

"He'd be the last one to wish me to countermand the order. Why, every fellow in our set has a new machine this spring. I thought I was doing something to send my order in so early, though of course if worse comes to worse, I can get rid of it easily enough. Mine is to be ready in June, and I know a fellow who would take it off my hands gladly enough, as he can't get his until August. I'm going to pray, however, that things won't come to that pass."

Martine, fortunately, was not inclined to borrow trouble, and although she by no means forgot the little conversation with her mother regarding her father's business, remembering it did not depress her. Life in the spring, even in a bleak New England spring, holds so many pleasant things for a girl of seventeen that intangible troubles are not likely to prevent her enjoyment of the present.

Martine was popular at school, and her invitations far exceeded those of the majority of her classmates. The younger girls liked her because she was always cheerful, and never snubbed them. The older girls admired her because she had an air of knowing the world, and was ever ready with some amusing story. She was popular without having many intimate friends, and Priscilla was proud of the distinction of being the one girl who knew Martine the best. Here and there, naturally enough, there were girls who did not care especially for Martine. There were one or two who professed an inherent dislike of outsiders, as a class, and there were others who found fault with Martine in particular. They said that she was forward, that she was patronizing, and that her liberality in the spending of money was merely a way of "showing off" of which they did not approve. But the fact that Martine, at the beginning of the school year, had been dubbed "Brenda's ward" was more effectual than any other one thing in placing her within the inner circle of the school. In spite of the years that had elapsed since Brenda was a pupil at Miss Crawdon's, she and her doings were still remembered. Older sisters had talked to younger sisters about her, and everyone knew that she had been the most popular girl of her day. She was still spoken of most habitually as "Brenda," even by those who had not known her well. For in Boston the unmarried names of girls cling to them longer than in most cities, and those who immediately recalled "Brenda Barlow" had to think twice when "Mrs. Arthur Weston" was named.

Priscilla, who was nothing if not exact, remonstrated occasionally with girls who spoke of Martine as "Brenda's ward."

"She never was really her ward, you know, only Brenda was to chaperone her, and now that Mrs. Weston has gone away, it seems to me that the name ought to be dropped."

The girls to whom Priscilla spoke only laughed at her.

"My dear child," said Marie Taggart, "from the way you cling to her, I judge you would rather have Martine called 'Priscilla's ward,' but Brenda is so far away that you mustn't be jealous of her, really and truly you must not."

After this Priscilla said no more on this subject, although an observer would have noticed that she herself never spoke of her friend by the obnoxious title.

When Mrs. Stratford and Martine first took possession of Brenda's little apartment, Brenda's mother and sister, Mrs. Barlow and Mrs. Weston, added much to their pleasure by introducing them to their large circle of relatives and friends and in other ways, as Mrs. Barlow put it, "adopting" them in Brenda's place. But before January had come to an end the whole Barlow household was itself preparing to move. His physician had prescribed a change of air for Mr. Barlow, and after a few weeks in Florida the family intended to travel West, to join Brenda in California in the late spring.

It happened, therefore, that the special groups to whom Mrs. Barlow had introduced the Stratfords felt no personal responsibility for them. This was not because they did not find the Chicagoans interesting, but because the latter seemed able to make their own friends without the help of a third person.

"It would be a great bore, mamma," Martine had protested, when one or two of Mrs. Barlow's friends urged that the young girl should join a certain exclusive dancing-class. "It would be a great bore if we had to act as if we were real old Bostonians. We are not, and though some of the sewing circles and dancing-classes, and afternoon-readings are offered us kindly, I do prefer to be independent and know only the people I want to know and do only the things I really wish to do. Anything else would be a nuisance, so please don't let anyone make social engagements for me."

Mrs. Stratford herself was not strong, and she really preferred a quiet life. Later she saw that Martine herself had been very wise in her attitude of independence. Martine indeed was happy enough—happy in her school acquaintances, happy in her friendship with Priscilla, and happier in her affection for Amy. It is true that Amy in this her last year of college was too busy to give much time to Martine, but when occasionally they had a half-day together, no one could have doubted their perfect understanding of each other.

On the morning before the matinee to which Mrs. Stratford had referred, or to be more exact, at twelve o'clock on the very day of the great Paderewski recital, Martine ran out to the letter-box to post two or three notes. Angelina could have taken them for her, or she might better have followed the custom of the house, which was to give them to the hall-boy. But Martine had not been out that morning, as illness among her drawing pupils had occasioned a postponement of the usual Saturday lesson. She had therefore seized on the letters as an excuse for getting a breath of the fresh spring air that came in through the half-open windows, tantalizing her and urging her to leave the house.

"I half wish I were not going to the recital," she said to herself, "on a mild sunny day like this I begrudge the hours I must spend in a crowded hall, and though I won't have to pretend to be in a seventh heaven over the music, yet it will weary me to have to show a proper degree of appreciation in the presence of my guests." So ran the course of Martine's thoughts as she approached the letter-box. After a turn or two in the mall under the trees, she walked back slowly toward the house.

"After all," she mused, "mamma was probably right. I have been extravagant. The tickets have really cost a pretty sum, counting premiums and all. For what is the good in inviting guests, unless one has the very best seats?"

This thought of the seats inclined Martine to look again at her tickets, and as soon as she reached her room she went to her desk to look at them.

"Mamma," she called, "you haven't by any chance seen a narrow envelope with my Paderewski tickets?"

"No, my dear," replied her mother, "surely you haven't lost them?"

"Oh, no, I remember now, I put them in a larger envelope; they were lying here with my letters."

A moment later Martine stood before her mother with dismay written on her face. "What do you suppose I have done? it's too foolish and too annoying for anything. I can't find the envelope with the tickets and I really believe that I dropped it into the letter-box."

"Oh, Martine, I thought you'd outgrown those careless habits!"

"I thought so too, but there's no use in crying about spilled milk; I will try to do what I can to get the tickets from the postman."

"There again you talk like a baby," said Mrs. Stratford. "Surely you must know that no postman can give you anything from a letter-box simply because you ask for it."

"Well, I can try, that is if there's time."

"But it's half-past twelve now, and if you are to meet Priscilla at half-past one, you will have all you can do to dress and keep your appointment."

"But, mamma, what can I do without tickets? It will be terrible if we can't get in, and how everyone will laugh at me. And they were such good seats in the house."

"I am sorry for you, my child, but I can say little to help you."

While they were speaking, Martine had been making a rapid calculation. The only result at which she arrived was the impossibility of recovering the lost envelope.

"There's one thing I can do," she said. "I'll dress as quickly as I can and run over to the branch postoffice; then I'll beg them to look over their mail and see if an envelope is there with the tickets I describe."

"Of course you can try, but I feel sure that you will not succeed."

"Then what shall I do, mamma? It will be terrible to disappoint three people I've invited to so important an affair as this."

"There is only one thing, my dear. If you fail to recover the tickets, you can pay single admissions at the door, and if you remember the number of your seats or in a general way where they are, you can take possession of them."

"Thank you, mamma, that certainly is the only way, but dear me, four single admissions at one dollar apiece; this is something I hadn't planned for, and I intended to be so economical the rest of the spring."

As quickly as she could, Martine hastened away to the postoffice, only to find that the mail from the box in which she had deposited her letters would not reach the office until half-past two, and that even then it was doubtful if the envelope would be given to her immediately. The only way, then, of saving her reputation as a hostess was to follow her mother's suggestion. She met her friends as she had planned, paid for admission to the hall and after some discussion with a rather obtuse usher at last found herself in possession of her own seats. It is to be feared that her impressions of the great pianist were sadly blurred that afternoon. Her brain was automatically working out problems of expenditure. She was trying to plan in what way she could economize to make up for the extravagance of this Paderewski matinee—to make up not only for this, but for various other needless expenses that she had lately incurred. So abstracted was she that she failed to join in the applause repeatedly showered on the musician, and on leaving the hall, she had very little to say to her friends. At the hotel afterwards, however, she brightened up and confided to Priscilla and Grace the way in which she had lost the tickets.

"I think you managed very well," said Priscilla, "I should not have had the least idea what to do if anything like that happened to me."

"Neither should I," added Grace, "but you are always clever about things, Martine."

"Oh, no, it was all mamma; I felt quite sure at first that I should have to telephone you not to meet me, but 'all's well that ends well,' and I'm so glad that that stupid usher let us have our seats; for you know they told me at the box office that actually there wasn't a seat to sell in the whole house, and ours were about the last admissions."

"You were fortunate enough," said Miss Mings who had listened with considerable amusement to Martine's entertaining account of her mistake adventure.

"Our afternoon with you has been so pleasant that I should have been very sorry to lose it."

"Oh, I should have made it up in some way," responded Martine. "We were bound to have this little tea here, and we might have taken a drive through the Park instead of hearing Paderewski. Truly, now, it would have been more fun, wouldn't it, Priscilla?"

Honest Priscilla shook her head.

"Nothing could have been more delightful than this concert, though of course if we had had to give it up I should have made the best of it."

"As you do of everything, Prissie dear. I only wish that I were half as amiable as you."

Martine's economy did not extend very far. She refrained from doing some things that she would like to have done, when to do them meant going outside of her regular allowance. But each month's spending money was soon laid out on the various little things that pleased her fancy, and as she heard no more of depressing business conditions, she almost forgot her mother's warning.

A week after the matinee Martine received a letter from Elinor Naylor.

"Listen, mother," she said, "isn't this the funniest thing? Elinor says that a few days ago she received an unsealed letter from me—at least the envelope was unsealed, but there wasn't a scrap of writing inside. Instead there were four tickets for a concert by Paderewski. She wondered why I sent them as she didn't receive them until the day after the date on the tickets. Now she returns them—and here they are! Isn't it ridiculous?"

"Your carelessness certainly was ridiculous."

"I understand it all now," cried Martine. "I had addressed and stamped an envelope to Elinor, as I sometimes do when I am intending to write. Then when I wanted to put my tickets away, I picked up this envelope without looking at the addressed side. Of course the tickets went safely to Philadelphia."

"'Until I looked at the date,'" Martine read from Elinor's letter, "'I thought you had heard of my intention of coming to Boston, and meant me to hear Paderewski. But as I do not leave home until next week, there must be some other explanation.'"

"I had no idea that Elinor was coming here," said Martine. "But I am delighted. If she can manage it, mightn't I have her here to spend a day or two with me? I know you would like her."

"Certainly, my dear," replied Mrs. Stratford, and when Elinor accepted her invitation, Martine was delighted. Although Elinor could spare her only two days, both girls made the most of their time, and parted the best of friends, greatly to their own amusement. For both Elinor and Martine, whose friendship was of sudden growth, had begun their acquaintance with more or less prejudice. The acquaintance had developed into friendship chiefly through correspondence, as both girls had a gift for writing interesting letters.

A chance commission which Elinor had entrusted to Martine the day of their drive to Cambridge had occasioned the first interchange of letters after Elinor's return to Philadelphia, and in the succeeding months they had continued to write once a fortnight. Thus their friendship had developed without their having seen much of each other, and Elinor's flying visit was delightful to them both in showing them how much they really had in common.