in their ears and were addicted to chilblains, could be
trusted in appraising humanity.

So she answered, "Yes," dryly. It was her custom when he began to bestow
knighthood upon common clay to divert him with some new and irrelevant
subject. "Here's an item in the _Times_ this morning I fancy you
didn't read. After describing the bride's dress and her beauty, it says,
'And the bride is a daughter of the late H. M. Von Mueller, who was an
exile from his native land and gave up a large estate and a title
because of his participation in the revolution of '48. Miss Mueller might
properly be called the Countess Von Mueller, if she chose to claim her
rightful title!'--what is there to that?"

The Doctor threw back his head and chuckled:

"Pennsylvania Dutch for three generations--I knew old Herman Mueller's
father--before I came West--when he used to sell kraut and cheese around
Vincennes before the war, and Herman's grandfather came from
Pennsylvania."

"I thought so," sniffed Mrs. Nesbit. And then she added: "Doctor, that
girl is a minx."

"Yes, my dear," chirped the Doctor. "Yes, she's a minx; but this isn't
the open season for minxes, so we must let her go. And," he added after
a pause, during which he read the wedding notice carefully, "she may put
a brace under Henry--the blessed Lord knows Henry will need something,
though he's done mighty well for a year--only twice in eighteen months.
Poor fellow--poor fellow!" mused the Doctor. Mrs. Nesbit blinked at her
husband for a minute in sputtering indignation. Then she exclaimed:
"Brace under Henry!" And to make it more emphatic, repeated it and then
exploded: "The cat's foot--brace for Henry, indeed--that piece!"

And Mrs. Nesbit stalked out of the room, brought back a little dress--a
very minute dress--she was making and sat rocking almost imperceptibly
while her husband read. Finally, after a calming interval, she said in a
more amiable tone, "Doctor Nesbit, if you've cut up all the women you
claim to have dissected in medical school, you know precious little
about what's in them, if you get fooled in that Margaret woman."

"The only kind we ever cut up," returned the Doctor in a mild,
conciliatory treble, "were perfect--all Satterthwaites."

And when the Doctor fell back to his book, Mrs. Nesbit spent some time
reflecting upon the virtues of her liege lord and wondering how such a
paragon ever came from so common a State as Indiana, where so far as any
one ever