week--three weeks--and there be ladies who wait on one, and one
rests--all days one rests. And there be no twins. Think of it, Aaron!
rest and no twins!"

A few days later she climbed home after a morning's shopping to find
Algernon, heavy of eye and red of face, crouched near the locked door
with a whimper in his voice and a card in his hand.

"I'm got somethin'," he announced, with the pride of the invalid.

"Where didst get it?" asked Leah, automatically; she was accustomed
to brazen admission of guilt.

"Off of a boy at school."

"Thou wilt steal once too often," his sister admonished him. "Go now,
confess to Miss Bailey, and return what thou hast taken."

"The boy has it too," retorted Algernon. "It's a sickness--a taking
sickness; und comes a man und gives me a card und says I should come
by my house; I'm sick."

Leah gazed on the card in despairing envy. She had hopefully searched
her person for rash or redness, thinking thereby to achieve a ticket
to that promised land where beautiful ladies--as the stereopticon had
shown--sat graciously waving fans beside a smooth, white bed whereon
one lay and rested: only rested: quiet day after quiet day. There had
been no twins in her imaginings, yet here was Algernon already set
upon the way; Algernon, who would be naughty in that blissful place,
and who might even "talk sassy" to the beautiful ladies. Slow tears