the repressed longings for the brave array of other times that assail
the wearers of well-saved--therefore _passee_--finery, at sight of other
women less conscientious, or with richer husbands than themselves,
reveling in the latest and most enticing modes--if eyes scornful of
plain attire could penetrate to the jealously locked closet where
feminine vanity and native extravagance are kept under watch and ward by
the love the critic is ready to doubt,--print, gingham and stuff gowns
would be fairer than ermine and velvet in John's esteem.




CHAPTER VI.

CHINK-FILLERS.


At a recent conference of practical housewives and mothers held in a
western city, one of the leaders told, as illustrative of the topic
under discussion, an incident of her childhood. When a little girl of
seven years, she stood by her father, looking at a new log-cabin.

"Papa," she observed, "it is all finished, isn't it?"

"No, my daughter, look again!"

The child studied the structure before her. The neatly hewed logs were
in their proper places. The roof, and the rough chimney, were
complete, but, on close scrutiny, one could see the daylight filtering
through the interstices of the logs. It had yet to be "chinked."