stocks of silver, linen, china, the ample furnishings of every part,
the solid goodness of every bit of material--all was displayed with
modest pride, the complacence of one who knows there is nothing to hide
or apologise for.

"Isn't it a nice home, Debbie? Could any woman wish for a better home?"
she asked again and again, unable to restrain herself.

And Deb, with a few secret reservations, said "Yes" and "No" with
kindly warmth, thinking to herself: "Happy child, to be satisfied so
easily! How much happier than we who want the moon!"

"I often wonder why I am so blessed," Rose said, in the midst of the
house inspection, "when poor Molly, who deserved so much more, lives
the life she does. Ah, Deb--what a marriage!"

She spoke of it exactly as Bennet Goldsworthy had spoken of hers--in a
spirit compounded of benevolence and contempt, the former element
preponderating in him, the latter in her. At the moment she was
exhibiting the complete appointments of Peter's dressing-room.

"My husband may be a draper," said she, "but at least he does not shave
in my room."

The survey of the house ended at the nurseries. Rose had purposely left
the best till last. Her throwing open of the door revealed a picture so
charming that it persuaded Deb to accept an invitation to dinner in
order that she might do justice to it.

"Oh, what a delightful room!" she cried, as her eyes ran round its