all Rose's children; in physical matters they were as clean as they
looked. Bob did not look unclean, but with all his excessive smartness,
he looked unfresh. That look, and the thing it meant, were his father's
legacy to him.

At last Deb reached her sister's room. It was another addition to the
ever-growing house, and marked, like each former one, the ever-growing
prosperity of the shop supporting it. The fastidious travelled eye
appraised the rich rugs and hangings, the massive "suite", the
delicately-furnished bed, and took in the general air of warm luxury
and unstinted comfort, even before it fell upon Rose herself--Rose,
fat and fair, and the picture of content, sitting in the
softest of arm-chairs, and the smartest of gowns and slippers, by the
brightest of wood fires, with a tableful of new novels and magazines on
one side of her, and a frilly cradle on the other.

"My husband may be a draper," she had remarked at various times, "but
he does give me a good home."

Deb, so long homeless amid her wealth, conceded at this moment, without
a grudge, that Rose's humble little arrow of ambition had fairly hit
the mark.

They embraced with all the warmth of the old Redford days. A few hasty
questions and answers were exchanged, and their heads met over the cradle.

"You poor child!" Deb exclaimed, as a matter of form. "Haven't you done
with this kind of thing yet?"

"Oh," said Rose, "I should feel lost without one now. And we wanted