my hands groped about, arranging the old protecting
barrier.

"What's the matter, Fuss-fuss?" inquired Norah,
looking on. "That down quilt won't bite you; what an old
maid you are!"

"Don't like blankets next to my face," I elucidated,
sleepily, "never can tell who slept under 'em last--"

You cat!" exclaimed Norah, making a little rush at
me. "If you weren't supposed to be ill I'd
shake you! Comparing my darling rosebud quilt to your
miserable gray blankets! Just for that I'll make you eat
an extra pair of eggs."

There never was a sister like Norah. But then, who
ever heard of a brother-in-law like Max? No woman--not
even a frazzled-out newspaper woman--could receive the
love and care that they gave me, and fail to flourish
under it. They had been Dad and Mother to me since the
day when Norah had tucked me under her arm and carried me
away from New York. Sis was an angel; a comforting,
twentieth-century angel, with white apron strings for
wings, and a tempting tray in her hands in place of the
hymn books and palm leaves that the picture-book angels
carry. She coaxed the inevitable eggs and beef into more
tempting forms than Mrs. Rorer ever guessed at. She
could disguise those two plain, nourishing articles of
diet so effectually that neither hen nor cow would have