that "some of those painters who go crazy over girls not half as
pretty" might see her. But after all, sensible little Mrs. Porter
would say to herself, Weston was a "nice" town, only four hours from
New York, absolutely up-to-date; and Weston's best people were all
"nice," and the Paget girls were very popular, and "went everywhere,"
--young people were just discontented and exacting, that was all!

She came to Margaret's side now, buttoned snugly into her own storm
coat, and they looked out at the rain together. Nothing alive was in
sight. The bare trees tossed in the wind, and a garden gate halfway
down the row of little shabby cottages banged and banged.

"Shame--this is the worst yet!" Mrs. Porter said. "You aren't going
home to lunch in all this, Margaret?"

"Oh, I don't know," Margaret said despondently. "I'm so dead that I'd
make a cup of tea here if I didn't think Mother would worry and send
Julie over with lunch."

"I brought some bread and butter--but not much. I hoped it would hold
up. I hate to leave Tom and Sister alone all day," Mrs. Porter said
dubiously. "There's tea and some of those bouillon cubes and some
crackers left. But you're so tired, I don't know but what you ought
to have a hearty lunch."

"Oh, I'm not hungry." Margaret dropped into a desk, put her elbows on
it, pushed her hair off her forehead. The other woman saw a tear slip
by the lowered, long lashes.

"You're exhausted, aren't you, Margaret?" she said suddenly.