an marry Margaret. She's pretty and sweet
even if you have spoiled her. The years are slipping by. Margaret
ought to marry. She's not strong enough to work. Marriage for her
would make things so much easier for you."

With that parting dig Mrs. Wrapp rose to go. Whereupon she and Mrs.
Kingsley, with gracious words of invitation and farewell, took
themselves off leaving Mrs. Maynard contending with an outraged
spirit. Certain terse remarks of the crude and practical Mrs. Wrapp
had forced to her mind a question that of late had assumed cardinal
importance, and now had been brought to an issue by a proposal for
Margaret's hand. Her daughter was a great expense, really more than
could longer be borne in these times of enormous prices and shrunken
income. A husband had been found for Margaret, and the matter could be
adjusted easily enough, if the girl did not meet it with the
incomprehensible obstinacy peculiar to her of late.

Mrs. Maynard found the fair object of her hopes seated in the middle
of her room with the bright contents of numerous boxes and drawers
strewn in glittering heaps around her.

"Margaret, what on earth are you doing there?" she demanded.

"I'm looking for a little picture Holt Dalrymple gave me when we went
to school together," responded Margaret.

"Aren't you ever going to grow up? You'll be hunting for your dolls
next."

"I will if I like," said the daughter, in a tone that did not manifest
a seraphic mood.

"Don't you feel well?" inquired the mother, solicitously. Margaret was
frail and subject to headaches that made her violent.

"Oh, I'm well enough."

"My dear," rejoined Mrs. Maynard, changing the topic. "I'm sorry to
tell you Daren Lane has lost his standing in Middleville."

The hum and the honk of a motor-car sounded in the street.

"Poor Daren! What's he done?... Any old day he'll care!"

Mrs. Maynard was looking out of the window. "Here comes a crowd of
girls.... Helen Wrapp has a new suit. Well, I'll go down. And after
they leave I want a serious talk with you."

"Not if I see you first!" muttered Margaret, under her breath, as her
mother walked out.

Presently, following gay talk and laughter down stairs, a bevy of
Margaret's friends entered her boudoir.

"Hello, old socks!" was Helen's greeting. "You look punk."

"Marg, where's the doll? Your mother tipped us off," was Elinor's
greeting.

"Where's the eats?" was Flossie Dickerson's greeting. She was a
bright-eyed g