ly Missy heard the sound of
tip-toeing steps, and lifted a corner of the towel from off her eyes.
There stood Mr. Briggs.

"Say, this is too bad!" he commiserated. "How's the head?"

"It's better," smiled Missy wanly. It wasn't better, in fact, but a
headache isn't without its advantages when it makes a young man forsake
dancing to be solicitous.

"Sure it's better?"

"Sure," replied Missy, her smile growing a shade more wan.

"Because if it isn't--" Mr. Briggs began to rub his palms together
briskly--"I've got electricity in my hands, you know. Maybe I could rub
it away."

"Oh," said Missy.

Her breathing quickened. The thought of his rubbing her headache away,
his hands against her brow, was alarming yet exhilarating. She glanced
up as she felt him removing the towel from her head, then quickly down
again. She felt, even though her face was already fiery hot, that she
was blushing. She was embarrassed, her head was racking, but on the
whole she didn't dislike the situation. Mr. Briggs unlinked his cuffs,
turned back his sleeves, laid his palms on her burning brow, and began a
slow, pressing movement outward, in both directions, toward her temples.

"That feel good?" he asked. "Yes," murmured Missy. She could scarcely
voice the word; for, in fact, the pressure of his hands seemed to send
those horrible weights joggling worse than ever, seemed to intensify the
uneasiness in her throat--though she wouldn't for worlds let Mr. Briggs
think her unappreciative of his kindness.

The too-kind hands stroked maddeningly on.

"Feel better now?"

"Yes," she gasped.

Things, suddenly, seemed going black. If he'd only stop a minute!
Wouldn't he ever stop? How could she make him stop? What could she do?

The whole world, just then, seemed to be composed of the increasing
tumult in her throat, the piercing conflict in her head, and those
maddening strokes--strokes--strokes--strokes. How long could she stand
it?

Presently, after eons it seemed, she desperately evoked a small, jerky
voice.

"I think--it must--be getting worse. Thanks, but--Oh, won't
you--please--go away?"

She didn't open her eyes to see whether Mr. Briggs looked hurt, didn't
open them to see him leave the room. She was past caring, now, whether
he was hurt or not. She thought she must be dying. And she thought
she must be dying, later, while Mrs. Bonner, aided by a fluttering,
murmuring Louise, attended her with sympathetic ministrations; and aga