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ficient unto the day is the evil thereof,” and not to worry about the future more than she could help.

For the first three days of the following week no one entered her shop. On the fourth—which was early closing day—she was sitting alone—still working, for she had refused as yet to give up hope—when Mrs. Ford’s car stopped in the street outside, and in walked Mrs. Ford herself, her daughter Rhoda, and Rhoda’s two sons.

“This is my daughter, Mrs. Hemingway,” said Mrs. Ford, “and these are the twins, Peter and Paul, and if you can tell t’other from which after they’ve got thoroughly mixed, you’ll be cleverer than I am.”

The little boys, who were seven years old, took off their caps and gravely shook hands; and then proceeded to make a tour of the room, examining the hats with great interest.

“Buy this one, Mum,” said Peter (or it might have been Paul).

“No, this,” interjected his twin, “This one’s got lovely chrysantherums on it.”

“Those aren’t chrysantherums.”

“Yes, they are.”

“No, they aren’t, They’re bits of pink rag tied in a bunch.”

“Well, they’re meant to be chrysantherums.”

A lively argument ensued. But neither Mrs. Ford nor Mrs. Hemingway paid the least attention to the boys. They also were busy examining the hats. Mrs. Hemingway, it appeared, wanted two, and Ann