oung woman brimful of the zest of living, all babies had been "just too
dear and sweet," all marriages were "simply _lovely_" regardless of
circumstances, and all men were "just the dearest great big manly
fellows that ever _were_!" As Miss Sally Ford, Mrs. Toland had flashed
about on many visits to her girl friends admiring, exclaiming, rejoicing
in their joys, and now, as a mother of growing girls and boys, there
still hung between her and real life the curtain of her unquenchable
optimism. She loved babies, and they had come very fast, and been cared
for by splendid maids, and displayed in effective juxtaposition to their
gay little mother for the benefit of admiring friends, when opportunity
offered. And if, in the early days of her married life, there had ever
been troublous waters to cross, Sally Toland had breasted them
gallantly, her fixed, confident smile never wavering.

At first Doctor Toland had felt something vaguely amiss in this
persistent attitude of radiant and romantic surety. "Are you sure the
boy understands?" "D'ye think Bab isn't old enough to know that you're
just making that up?" he would ask uneasily, when a question of
disciplining Ned or consoling Barbara arose. But Mrs. Toland always was
sure of her course, and would dimple at him warningly: "Of course it's
all right, Daddykins, and we're all going to be happy, and not even
think of our naughty old troubles any more!"

So the doctor gave her her way, and settled back to enjoy his children
and his wife, his yacht and his roses; growing richer and more famous,
more genial and perhaps a little more mildly cynical as time went on.
And the children grew up, their mother, never dreaming that Barbara at
eighteen was more than the sweet, light-hearted, manageable child she
had been at ten; that Ned was beginning to taste of a life of whose
existence she was only vaguely aware; that Sally was plotting an escape
to the ranks of trained nurses; that Ted needed a firm hand and close
watching if she were not to break all their hearts. No, to Mrs. Toland
they were still her "rosebud garden," "just the merriest, romping crowd
of youngsters that ever a little scrap of a woman had to keep in order!"

"Now, you're going to wipe that horrid frown off your forehead, Daddy,"
she would say blithely, if Doctor Toland confessed to a misgiving in the
contemplation of any one of his seven, "and stop worrying about Richie!
His bad old hip is going to get well, and he'