knew there was never a family in the whole commonwealth, and
the entire population as she understood it carried potatoes in their
pockets to keep away rheumatism.

The evening wore away and Dr. and Mrs. Nesbit were alone by the ashes in
the smoldering fire in the grate. They were about to go up stairs when
the Doctor, who had been looking absent-mindedly into the embers, began
meditating aloud about local politics while his wife sewed. His
meditation concerned a certain trade between the city and Daniel Sands
wherein the city parted with its stock in Sands's public utilities with
a face value of something like a million dollars. The stocks were to go
to Mr. Sands, while the city received therefor a ten-acre tract east of
town on the Wahoo, called Sands Park. After bursting into the Doctor's
political nocturne rather suddenly and violently with her feminine
disapproval, Mrs. Nesbit sat rocking, and finally she exclaimed: "Good
Lord, Jim Nesbit, I wish I was a man."

"I've long suspected it, my dear," piped her husband,

"Oh, it isn't that--not your politics," retorted Mrs. Nesbit, "though
that made me think of it. Do you know what else old Dan Sands is doing?"

The Doctor bent over the fire, stirred it up and replied, "Well, not in
particular."

"Philandering," sniffed Mrs. Nesbit.

"Again?" returned the Doctor.

"No," snapped Mrs. Nesbit--"as usual!"

The Doctor had no opinion to express; one of the family specters was
engaging his attention at the moment. Presently his wife put down her
paper and sat as one wrestling with an impulse. The specter on her side
of the hearth was trying to keep her lips sealed. They sat while the
mantel clock ticked off five minutes.

"What are you thinking?" the Doctor asked.

"I'm thinking of Dan Sands," replied the wife with some emotion in her
voice.

The foot tap of Mrs. Nesbit became audible. She shook her head with some
force and exclaimed: "O Jim, wouldn't I like to have that man--just for
one day."

"I've noticed," cut in the Doctor, "regarding such propositions from the
gentler sex, that the Lord generally tempers the wind to the shorn
lamb."

"The shorn lamb--the shorn lamb," retorted Mrs. Nesbit. "The shorn
tom-cat! I'd like to shear him." Wherewith she rose and putting out the
light led the Doctor to the stairs.

Both knew that the spectral sentinels had used Daniel Sands and his
amours only as a seal upon their lips.

The parents could speak in parables abo