ruffled apron, whom he finally recognized as his
wife.

``Why, Billy!'' he gasped.

Billy, who was struggling with something at
the sink, turned sharply.

``Bertram Henshaw,'' she panted, ``I used to
think you were wonderful because you could
paint a picture. I even used to think I was a
little wonderful because I could write a song.
Well, I don't any more! But I'll tell you who _is_
wonderful. It's Eliza and Rosa, and all the rest
of those women who can get a meal on to the
table all at once, so it's fit to eat!''

``Why, Billy!'' gasped Bertram again, falling
back to the door he had closed behind him.
``What in the world does this mean?''

``Mean? It means I'm getting dinner,'' choked
Billy. ``Can't you see?''

``But--Pete! Eliza!''

``They're sick--I mean he's sick; and I said
I'd do it. I'd be an oak. But how did I know
there wasn't anything in the house except stuff
that took hours to cook--only potatoes? And