steady her
suddenly quivering lips. She looked at George sitting there in the
twilight, and said to herself it was all true. He WAS good, he WAS
steady, he was indeed devoted to her and to the children. But--but he
had insulted her, he had broken her heart, she couldn't let him off
without some rebuke.

"You should have thought of these things before you--" she began, with
a very fair imitation of scorn in her voice. But George interrupted
her. His hands were clasped loosely between his knees, his head hanging
dejectedly.

"I know," he said despondently, "I know!"

Mary paused. What she had still to say seemed suddenly flat. And in the
pause her mother's one piece of advice came to her mind. After all it
only mattered that he was unhappy, and he was hers, and she could make
him happy again.

She left her chair, went with a few quick steps to her husband's side,
and knelt, and put her cheek against his shoulder. He gave a great
boyish laugh of relief and pleasure and put his arms about her.

"How old are you, George?" she said.

"How old am I? What on earth--why, I'm forty," he said.

"I was just thinking that the best of you men is only a little boy, and
should be treated as such!" said Mary, kissing him.

"You can treat me as you like," he assured her, joyously. "And I'm
starving. And unless you think there is any likelihood of Mamma
dropping in and spoiling our plan, I would like to take you out to
dinner."

"Well, she might," Mary agreed with a happy laugh, "so I'll simply run
for my hat. You never can be sure, with Mamma!"

THE MEASURE OF MARGARET COPPERED

Duncan Coppered felt that his father's second marriage was a great
mistake. He never said so; that would not have been Duncan's way. But
he had a little manner of discreetly compressing his lips, when, the
second Mrs. Coppered was mentioned, eying his irreproachable boots, and
raising his handsome brows, that was felt to be significant. People who
knew and admired Duncan--and to know him was to admire him--realized
that he would never give more definite indications of filial
disapproval than these. His exquisite sense of what was due his
father's wife from him would not permit it. But all the more did the
silent sympathy of his friends go out to him.

To Harriet Culver he said the one thing that these friends, comparing
notes, considered indicative of his real feeling. Harriet, who met him
on the Common one cold afternoon, reproached him,