alone, and the shadowy hope for April lent a new tone even to
their gayety, and deepened the exquisite happiness of the dark,
snowbound day. The tiny house was full of laughter, for Bert had
given his wife all the little things she had from time to time
whimsically desired. The fancy cheeses, and the perfumes and
soaps, made her laugh and laugh as she unwrapped them. There were
fuzzy wash-cloths--a particular fancy of hers--and new library
paste and new hair-pins, and a can-opener that made her exclaim:
"Bert, that was cute of you!" and even an alligator pear. A
bewildered look came into Nancy's eyes as she went on
investigating her bulging stocking--gloves, and silk hosiery, and
new little enamelled pins for her collars, and the piano score of
the opera she so loved--where had the money come from?

"My firm gave us each ten," Bert explained, grinning.

"And you spent it ALL on me!" Nancy said, stricken. "You poked
about and got me every blessed thing I ever wanted in this world--
you darling!"

"Why not?" he asked. "You're the only thing I have, Nance! And
such LITTLE things, dear."

"It isn't the things--it's your thinking of them," Nancy said.
"And eating wretched lunches while you planned them! You make me
cry--and meanwhile, my beloved little chicken will roast himself
dry!"

She rushed into her kitchen. Bert rushed after her; his days at
home were a succession of interruptions for Nancy, no topic was