he thought the man, sprawled loosely
in the chair, must be asleep--till he lifted his eyes. They were
sleepless and inflamed like a watch-dog's.

"Hold on! Wait a minute! Nell's boss now. You don't want to go in
looking that way--you'd skeer 'im!"

"What'll I say?" inquired Marvin hoarsely; "Myry's a good woman--she 's
been a good wife to me--too good--"

"Tell 'er something she don't know! Say something fond-like and
foolish."

"You can come in now," granted the lofty Nell.

Somehow, old Mrs. Bray had preceded him. But he never saw her. He never
even saw the managerial Nell. He saw his wife's face, looking so little
and white from out a ruffled lace cap. There were circles of ruffles
about her thin wrists. There was a lace ruffle in the neck of her gown.
For these were Myry's coronation robes; it was about this adorning that
old Mrs. Bray had continuously cautioned Nell. Nell, in that smug,
proprietary manner of hers, had turned back a blanket--enough to show
the tiny yoke which he had dangled, and the neck which it encircled, and
the red and wrinkly head on top of that---

Like a well-conned article of catechism, words came to Marvin--words he
could never have got from his pa.

"Oh, Myry--I love you! How beautiful you are!"

A strange cosmetic glowed on Myra's white cheek. Happiness is the surest
beautifier. He might never say it again. It was not likely that he
would. He favored his pa. But she had had her great moment--her
beautiful and beloved moment. She smiled drowsily up at old Mrs. Bray,
beaming beneficently above; and remembered, in an odd flash, the pink
china cup. This was her cup--full and running over.

"Come on out now, and let her sleep," ordered the dictatorial Nell.
"Who'd a' thought, now, Myry had her little vanities? That lace cap now,
and them ruffles--for Marvin! Some folks has the strangest notions."

"'Tain't notions!" protested old Mrs. Bray.

"Oh, yes, it is! And all right, if you feel that way--like you and your
dishes, now."

"Myry and me both is powerful set on dishes," exulted old Mrs. Bray.

THE BLOOD-RED ONE[8]

[Note 8: Copyright, 1918, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]

BY MAXWELL STRUTHERS BURT

From _Scribner's Magazine_

It was a February evening, so it seems, about five o'clock, and old Mr.
Vandusen, having left his hat and ulster in the coatroom, had retraced
his steps along the entrance hall of the St. Dunstan Club to the wide
doorway that led into the fi