"Why, of course I live in a house," laughed Barton. "O h," breathed little Eve Edgarton. "Re ally? It must be wonderful." Wiltingly her eyes, her hands, drooped back to her scrap-book again. "In all my life," she resumed monotonously, "I've never spent a single night in a real house." "What?" questioned Barton.

She was polishing a silver cup with a cloth, and she looked like a pearl laid against black velvet. She turned on me a flatteringly protracted but a wiltingly disapproving gaze, and then went inside, humming a light song to indicate the value she placed upon my existence. Small wonder: for Dr.