age--with all your faculties intact--to own nothing in the world
except--except a steamer trunkful of the things that Father thinks are
necessary!"

Very painstakingly on the fingers of one hand she began to enumerate
the articles in question. "Just your riding togs," she said, "and six
suits of underwear--and all the United States consular reports--and
two or three wash dresses and two 'good enough' dresses--and a lot of
quinine--and--a squashed hat--and--and--" Very faintly the ghost of a
smile went flickering over her lips--"and whatever microscopes and
specimen-cases get crowded out of Father's trunk. What's the use, Mr.
Barton," she questioned, "of spending a whole year investigating the
silk industry of China--if you can't take any of the silks home?
What's the use, Mr. Barton, of rolling up your sleeves and working six
months in a heathen porcelain factory--just to study glaze--if you
don't own a china-closet in any city on the face of the earth?
Why--sometimes, Mr. Barton," she confided, "it seems as if I'd die a
horrible death if I couldn't buy things the way other people do--and
send them somewhere--even if it wasn't 'home'! The world is so full of
beautiful things," she mused. "White enamel bath-tubs--and Persian
rugs--and the most ingenious little egg-beaters--and--"

"Eh?" stammered Barton. Quite desperately he rummaged his brain for
some sane-sounding expression of understanding and sympathy.

"You could, I suppose," he ventured, not too intelligently, "buy the
things and give them to other people."

"Oh, yes, of course," conceded little Eve Edgarton without
enthusiasm. "Oh, yes, of course, you can always buy people the things