n tell him I said so when you see him."

The doctor smiled, well pleased at this tribute to Ned's son and this
letter, like Larry's, he handed to his wife Margery to read.

The thirties had touched "Miss Margery" lightly. She was still slim and
girlish-looking. In her simple gown of that forgetmenot blue shade which
her husband particularly loved she seemed scarcely older than she had on
that day, some eight years earlier, when he had found her giving a Fourth
of July party to the Hill youngsters, and had begun to lose his heart to
her then and there. It was not by shedding care and responsibility,
however, that she had kept her youth. It was by no means the easiest
thing in the world to be a busy doctor's wife, the mother of two lively
children and faithful daughter to an invalid and rather "difficult"
mother-in-law, as well as to care for a big house and an elastic
household, which in vacation time included Ned Holiday's children and
their friends. Needless to say she did not do any painting these days.
But there is more than one way of being an artist, and of the art of
simple, lovely, human living Margery Holiday was past mistress.

"Doesn't sound much like 'Lazy Larry' these days, does it?" she
commented, giving the letters back to her husband. "I know you are proud
of Doctor Fenton's letter, Phil. You ought to be. It is more than a
little due to you that Larry is what he is."

"We are advertised by our loving wives," he misquoted teasingly. "I have
always observed that the things we approve of in the younger generation
are the fruit of seeds we planted. The things we disapprove of slipped in
inadvertedly like weeds."

The same mail that brought Larry's letter brought one also to Ted from
Madeline Taylor, a letter which made him wriggle a little internally,
and pull his forelock, as was his habit when things were a bit
perturbing.

Madeline had gone to bed that Sunday night after her meeting with Ted in
the woods, full of the happiest kind of anticipations and shy, foolish,
impossible dreams. Her mind told her it was the rankest of nonsense to
dream about Ted Holiday, but her heart would do it. She knew the affair
with Ted had begun wrong, but she couldn't help hoping it would come out
beautifully right. She couldn't help making believe she had found her
prince, a bonny laddie who liked her well enough to play straight with
her and to come again to see her.

She meant to try so hard, so very hard, to make he