down; but they would keep up the fiction that they did not know
it by being particularly cheerful when he came home from work.

So Nan giggled and swallowed back her sobs. Surely, if Momsey
could present a cheerful face to this family calamity, she could!

The girl ran her slim fingers into the thick mane of her mother's
coiled hair, glossy brown hair through which only a few threads
of white were speckled.

"Your head feels hot, Momsey," she said anxiously. "Does it
ache?"

"A wee bit, honey," confessed Mrs. Sherwood.

"Let me take the pins out and rub your poor head, dear," said
Nan. "You know, I'm a famous 'massagist.' Come do, dear."

"If you like, honey."

Thus it was that, a little later, when Mr. Sherwood came home
with feet that dragged more than usual on this evening, he opened
the door upon a very beautiful picture indeed.

His wife's hair was "a glory of womanhood," for it made a tent
all about her, falling quite to the floor as she sat in her low
chair. Out of this canopy she looked up at the brawny, serious
man, roguishly.

"Am I not a lazy, luxurious person, Papa Sherwood?" she demanded.