er on every possible occasion,
to drive with her, to dine, to go to the opera, or attend some
entertainment. She was constantly planning some new way to give Alida
pleasure. Finding her deeply interested in the children at the
hospital, she sent a beautiful tree out to them on Christmas day, in
Alida's name. When February 14th came again, a great package of
valentines found its way to Alida for the children--enough for every
child in every ward, and the finest that could be bought in the city.

Doctor Agnes came up to Alida's room to help her sort and address
them. "You certainly have your share this year," she said, laughing.
"Do you remember what a slough of despond you were in a year ago?"

Alida smiled happily, and then hid her face in a great bunch of roses
on her dressing-table. The little note that had come with the flowers
was still in her hand, and she had just reread it.

"St. Valentine has brought me something else," she said, hesitatingly.
"Doctor Agnes, I'm to be Ben's valentine at the party to-night, and
he--he thinks that I am really homely in the archaic sense."

THE HAND OF DOUGLAS

[Illustration]

THE HAND OF DOUGLAS

"Hurry, Mary Lee, it is nearly train time!" called Mrs. Marker, where
she sat in a dingy little dining-room, pouring out a cup of coffee in
nervous haste for her daughter's early breakfast. The brand-new
hand-satchel on the lounge, packed for its first journey, was the only
thing in the room undimmed by service. Even at this early hour the
house felt hot and stuffy, for the August sun was fast warming the
great Southern city to a heat that would be intolerable by noon.

"I wish you were going with Mary Lee, Henry," said Mrs. Marker,
looking across the table at her husband as he seated himself. "You
need the rest."

There was a weary stoop in the man's shoulders that told of years
spent over a bookkeeper's desk, and his face was pale and worn. "Don't
say that in Mary Lee's hearing," he answered. "It is the child's first
real outing, and I would not have her pleasure marred by a single
thought of my work or ill health."

It was the greatest disappointment of Henry Marker's life that he had
not been able to give his daughter all that other fathers gave theirs.
Both he and his wife had been gently reared, and it was through no
fault of his that their property had been swept away just as he was
launching into his profession. A place at a bookkeeper's desk had been
th