masses of people swept endlessly by, as though their very souls depended on
their dinners or their jobs, their movies, roaring farces, thrills, their
harum scarum dances, clothes. A plump little fool of a woman, her skirt so
tight she could barely walk, tripped by on high-heeled slippers. That was
it, he told himself, the whole city was high-heeled! No solid footing
anywhere! And, good Lord, how they chattered!

He turned into a less noisy street. What would Judith want if she were
here? It became disturbingly clear to him that she would undoubtedly wish
him to have a talk with Laura now, find out if she'd really made up her
mind not to have any children, and if so to tell her plainly that she was
not only going against her God but risking her own happiness. For though
Judith had been liberal about any number of smaller things, she had been
decidedly clear on this. Yes, he must talk to Laura.

"And she'll tell me," he reflected, "that Edith put me up to it!"

If only his oldest daughter would leave the other girls alone! Here she was
planning a row with Deborah over whether poor young George should be
allowed to play with rats! It was all so silly!... Yes, his three children
were drifting apart, each one of them going her separate way. And he rather
took comfort in the thought, for at least it would stop their wrangling.
But again he pulled himself up with a jerk. No, certainly Judith would not
have liked this. If she'd ever stood for anything, it was for keeping the
family together. It had been the heart and center of their last talks
before she died.

His face relaxed as he walked on, but in his eyes was a deeper pain. If
only Judith could be here. Before he reached home he had made up his mind
to talk with Laura that very night. He drew out his latchkey, opened his
door, shut it firmly and strode into his house. In the hall they were
putting down the new carpet. Cautiously picking his way upstairs, he
inquired for Laura and was told she was dressing for dinner. He knocked at
her door.

"Yes?" came her voice.

"It's I," he said, "your father."

"Oh, hello, dad," came the answer gaily, in that high sweet voice of hers.
"I'm frightfully rushed. It's a dinner dance to-night for the bridesmaids
and the ushers." Roger felt a glow of relief. "Come in a moment, won't
you?"

What a resplendent young creature she was, seated at her dresser. Behind
her the maid with needle and thread was swiftly mending a little tear in