of scissors, an old jet bar-brooch whose pin was gone, and various
other small odds and ends. She had but one pair of gloves, of black
shiny kid, somewhat whitened at the finger-tips, and worn only to
church or to funerals. They were a sort of institution, "my gloves,"
and were kept in the bureau drawer. They distinguished her state
from that of Belle, the maid, who had no gloves at all.

Opposite the bureau, but because of the enormous size of the room,
some twenty-five feet away, was the "chestard" the high "chest of
drawers" that had won its name from the children's contracted
pronunciation. This bleak article of furniture contained the smaller
pieces of Malcolm Monroe's wardrobe, which matched in plainness and
ugliness that of his wife. Stiff white collars caught and rasped
when the shallow upper drawer was opened; the middle drawers were
filled with brownish gray flannels, and shirts stiff-bosomed and
limp of sleeves. But if a curious Martie, making the bed, or putting
away the "wash," ever cautiously tugged out the lowest drawer, she
found it so loaded with papers, old account books, and bundles of
letters as to awe her young soul. These meant nothing to Martie, and
the drawer was heavy to open noiselessly and awkward to close in
haste, yet at intervals now and then she liked to peep at its
mysterious contents.

To-night, however, Martie gave it neither glance nor thought. She
picked up her father's slippers and ran downstairs again, going to
kneel before him and put them on his feet. As she did so her young
warm hand felt the cool, slender length of his foot in the thin
stocking, and she was conscious of repugnance that even the
slightest contact with her father always caused her. There was a
definite antagonism between Malcolm and his youngest daughter,