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temper, yet something—that impression Ann had received at first of an unhappy tormented soul—seemed to rouse in the younger woman a curious sense of sympathy. And like the little girl who had the curl right down the middle of her forehead, when Vera Holmes was good, she was very, very good. No one could be more delightful, or more charming or more amusing than Vera Holmes in a good mood. But Vera in a bad mood! Even the children had learnt to recognize the storm signals and to give Mummy a wide berth at such times.

But Ann’s sympathy and liking for Mrs. Holmes did not blind her to the fact that probably of the two, Dick Holmes was more to be pitied. He quite evidently worshiped the turbulent-tempered woman he had married, and she hurt him daily in a score of ways. Her attitude towards the children, her selfishness towards him, her dislike of the country, were continual pin-pricks. But nothing alienated his affection. Ann was sure of this. Perhaps he found consolation in the fervent devotion of the two little girls who were his tireless champions. Daddy to them was the most humorous and most gifted, and most omnipotent and adorable of all mankind. He was rather adorable—Ann agreed with them to a certain extent here. He was so genuine, and so kind. Perhaps not so all-powerful as the children believed him. His gentleness of disposition would for ever make it impossible for him to act the strong, silent man, but he wasn’t lacking in character. Ann, trying to sort out her impressions, decided that though no one could describe him as effeminate, he had a good deal of the woman in him. The little girls didn’t so much mind if Mummy failed to come and say “good night” to