brightness his wife advanced to meet him, a child in either hand, their long curls brushed and tied with bright ribbons. Her face was filled with tender solicitude. "You must be worn out;--what a long day you have made! Would you like the dinner sent in at once, or would you rather wait? Children, don't hang so on papa; he must be dreadfully tired. Oh, and there's a man been waiting over an hour; he simply _wouldn't go_; but you'll let him come back to-morrow?--you won't try to see any one else tonight?" The Doctor hesitated a moment, letting all the warmth and brightness sink into him, while his hands played with the soft hair of his little son and daughter. He smiled at his wife, a bright, tired smile. "Robin," he said, "run down to the carriage; there are some posies there for mamma--from Miss Graham, Louise,--you see I did get a moment's rest." "Yes," said his wife. She continued to gaze compassionately at the tired man. After a moment she repeated gently, "And the dinner, dear--?" "No,--don't wait for me; I'll not be long. Have it brought in at once, and--send the man into the office, please." He stooped and kissed the children, and turning away, went into his office and closed the door behind him. A WORKING BASIS BY ABBY MEGUIRE ROACH Why she married him her friends wondered at the time. Those she made later wondered more. Before long she caught herself wondering. Yes, she had seen it beforehand, more or less. But she had seen other things as well: he had developed unevenly, unexpectedly, if logically. There had been common tastes--which grew obsolete or secondary. As the momentum of what she believed and hoped of him ran down with them both, he crystallized into the man he was, and no doubt virtually had always been. It was bad enough to have to ask for money, but to have it counted out to you, to be questioned about it like a child, was worse.