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Martie’s answering look was full of gratitude: she thought it
strangely touching to see the blooming little mother deliberately
try to bring her gay Christmas mood into tune with sorrow and loss.

“I see! Well, now, that puts a different face on it,” he said. “Of
course, I want the deal to go through,” he admitted, “and if you can
talk your father over–”

“That’s what I want you to do!” Martie assured him gaily.

He laughed in answer.

“He don’t pay any attention to me!” he confessed. “I’s telling him
only yes’day that it wasn’t good business to hang onto that piece. I
told–”

“But Clifford,” she suggested, “I want you to take this tack. I want
you to tell him that the town has a sentiment about it–the old
Monroe place, you know. Tell him that people feel it OUGHT to be
public property, and then, when he agrees, whip some sort of paper
out of your pocket, and have him sign it then and there!”

Clifford Frost was not quick of thought, but he was shrewd, and his
smile now was compounded of admiration for the scheme and the
schemer alike.

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