From that day the Doctor's peace was gone. Never was a quiet and
orderly household transformed so suddenly into a bear garden, or a happy
man turned into such a completely miserable one. He had never realized
before how entirely his daughters had shielded him from all the friction
of life. Now that they had not only ceased to protect him, but had
themselves become a source of trouble to him, he began to understand how
great the blessing was which he had enjoyed, and to sigh for the happy
days before his girls had come under the influence of his neighbor.

"You don't look happy," Mrs. Westmacott had remarked to him one morning.
"You are pale and a little off color. You should come with me for a ten
mile spin upon the tandem."

"I am troubled about my girls." They were walking up and down in the
garden. From time to time there sounded from the house behind them the
long, sad wail of a French horn.

"That is Ida," said he. "She has taken to practicing on that dreadful
instrument in the intervals of her chemistry. And Clara is quite as
bad. I declare it is getting quite unendurable."

"Ah, Doctor, Doctor!" she cried, shaking her forefinger, with a gleam of
her white teeth. "You must live up to your principles--you must give
your daughters the same liberty as you advocate for other women."

"Liberty, madam, certainly! But this approaches to license."

"The same law for all, my friend." She tapped him reprovingly on the