jest a pickter to see 'em all in bed together--a perfect pickter."

"A perfect picture," said I sleepily.

"Tip must have a lovely home. Why, he tells me they have a
sewin'-machine."

"Lovely," said I. "And a spring-bed."

"And a double-heater stove," said she.

"And an accordion," said I.

"And a washin'-machine," said she.

"And two hogs."

"And he tells me he's going to git her a melodium."

"Indeed," said I. "Why, I thought he was never going back."

"To sech a lovely home?" The old woman held up her hands. "He's goin'
jest as soon as he gets that me-yule and you're able." She laid her
hand on my forehead. "There," she cried, "it's painin' you again, poor
thing--that terrible spot."

It was hurting, despite the Modern Miracle, and I closed my eyes to
bear it better. Over me, away off, as if from the heavens, I heard a
sonorous rumble of mystery words. I felt a hand softly stroking my
brow. But I didn't care. It was only Dutch, a foolish charm, a