"You couldn't talk so lightly if you really CARED, Mart!"
"I care tremendously, Lyd. Why don't you use paraffin?"
"I know," Lydia said with interest, "Angela does. But somehow Ma always did it this way."
"Well, I'll mark 'em for you!" Martie began to cut neat little labels from white paper, and to write on them, "Currant Jelly with Rasp. 1915." Presently she and Lydia were chatting pleasantly.
"I really put up too much one year," Lydia said, "and it began to spoil, so I sent a whole box of it out to the Poor House; I don't suppose they mind! But Mrs. Dolan there never sent my glasses back! However, this year I'll give you some, Mart; unless Polly put some up."
"Unless I go to New York!" Martie suggested.
Lydia's whole face darkened.
"And if I do, you and Sally will be good to Teddy?" his mother asked, her tone suddenly faltering.
"Martie, what POSSESSES you to talk about going to New York now?"
"Oh, Lyddy, you'd never understand! It's just the longing to do something for myself, to hold my own there, to—well, to make good! Marrying here, and being comfortably supported here, seems like—like failure, almost, to me! If it wasn't for Teddy, I believe that I would have gone long ago!"