Page:Confessions of a wife (IA confessionsofwif00adamiala).pdf/61

strokes. Job had something like a sunstroke, I'm convinced. It was trying to find Job that I got into the sun. He was up in the tree-house, and it was hotter than anything; and he only shook hands, he was so weak, and did n't kiss me at all.

I don't see, in the least, why Mr. Herwin should have felt called upon to make up for Job's omission.

I had to give him sherbet, and put cracked ice on the back of his neck—I mean Job's neck. Job is much better. He is snoring in his basket, with his four feet up in the air. I shingled him to-day. He has kept his winter flannels on too long, the poor dear thing. I'm afraid I have neglected Job lately. I mean to devote myself to him exclusively hereafter.

Mr. Herwin's hair does curl beautifully, and it is so much softer than one would have thought.

Ir is well on toward morning. I wish I had been born one of those people who sleep when things happen. I am writing on and on, in this perfectly preposterous way. I am likely to