est, or you wouldn't be so
cross," retorted Marian slyly.

Ernest relaxed his gloom enough to grin.

"Well, I don't care--Mother hangs around babying me as if I were six
years old!"

Ernest's catastrophe had come about so gradually no one had suspected
it. He was reading a letter from Alice, who wrote a fine close hand,
when his father noticed that he was holding the paper almost to his
eyes. An examination revealed the fact that the poor eyes were sadly
overstrained and would have to have a complete rest for weeks or his
eyesight would be permanently injured.

This was distressing news to bookworm Ernest who was never so happy as
when lost in a book. The lad was immensely proud of his school standing,
too, and he chafed sadly at the thought of losing it.

"No school for three months, Son," his father said sorrowfully after the
boy's eyes had been thoroughly tested.

"It must be a dark room and a bandage for three weeks at the very least,
Dr. Allerton says."

Ernest groaned and growled rather more than usual to keep from breaking
down and playing the baby, when he heard this verdict.

"It was all that confounded scroll work!"

"I am afraid so--you remember your mother warned you against selecting
all those intricate patterns."

Ernest remembered only too distinctly, but he preferred not to be
reminded of it.

"Is there anything a fellow can do?" he demanded after three horrid
days of close confinement with the blinds down.

"Not much, poor boy, I'm afraid," Mrs. Morton replied pityingly. "I'll
read to you a couple of hours this morning and perhaps Sherm and Carol
will come in for a while after school. I'll send word to them by Chicken
Little. Mrs. Dart sent you over one of her custard pies just now."

The custard pie sounded comforting.

"How long is it till dinner time?"

"Only about three hours--we might let you have a taste now if you are
impatient," Mrs. Morton said.

"Oh, I can wait but the hours seem so plaguey long when you can't see.
Read me Alice's letter again, will you? Gee, I wish she were here--she
always knew how to help a chap out."

"Better than Mother?" Mrs. Morton couldn't help feeling a trifle
nettled.

Ernest felt the tone.

"Oh, Mumsey, you're a brick, but Alice can always think up things--you
know? Of course, she isn't like your mother." Ernest reached for his
mother's dress and pulling her head down gave her a kiss--an unusual
mark of affection.

It wrung Mrs. Morton's