remembering for Motherdie. And there were the baby's soft little shoes that needed patching, and Harry's trousers, and the dish-towels were in dire need of replenishment. If she only had a dozen hands these last days, and a dozen times a dozen hours to use them! Her heart misgave her uncomfortably. But they wanted her to go—of course it was just right. Nevertheless, her face grew sober and thoughtful, and something tugged distressingly at her heart-strings.

The day after, and the day after that came. Helen kissed her mother over and over, and hugged the little Arabs fiercely, and went away. The houses and people on the way to the depot danced about dizzily in a mist, and she felt dizzy and topsy-turvy in acute sympathy with them. Her father walked beside her, talking briskly and constantly. Roy walked on ahead with her valise and umbrella, and never once looked around. Helen watched him through the same confusing mist, and his straight, slim little figure was oddly contorted. He had never looked bow-legged before, Helen thought in dismay!

The train puffed in and puffed out again, with a little maid, stricken with sudden, overwhelming forlornness, in the corner of one of its seats. A plump, benign-looking old lady sat just behind her, and watched her with curious sympathy. The baby two seats ahead leaned over toward her insinuatingly, and made her think of the baby and the clothes-pins. Mahala would never remember the clothes-pins—never! And she had forgotten Harry's patch, that she meant to see to last night surely. Mahala'd forget that, too. Helen started involuntarily to her feet.