Night.

She lay sleepless on her bed.

She heard the outside door open; Kennicott returning from prayer
meeting.

He sat down on the bed and began pulling off his boots. She knew
that the left boot would stick. She knew exactly what he would
say and how long it would take him to get it off. She rolled over
in bed, a tactical movement which left no blanket for her
husband.

"You weren't at prayer meeting," he said.

"I had a headache," she lied. He expressed no sympathy.

"Miles Standish was telling me what you did today at the meeting
of the Jolly Seventeen." He had got the boot off at last; he lay
down beside her and pulled all the blankets off her onto
himself.

"That was kind of Miles." She jerked at the covers but he held
them tight. "What charming story did he tell this time?"

"Now look here, Prissie--Miles Standish isn't given to
fabrication. He said you told the Jolly Seventeen that next
Thanksgiving they ought to give a dance instead of an all-day
prayer service."