And so, although the Chicago trips had grown more and more frequent, Doris gave them small heed. But after her father had left the house the next morning, she walked soberly up-stairs to where Rosalie was dressing for school and said, "Rosalie, I hate to push my worries on to you, but--does--father act funny some way? Or do I imagine it? He seems so serious and anxious." "He has been rather quiet lately," said Rosalie slowly. "I am sure he is not well. I wish he did not take these Chicago trips so often. I think they expect entirely too much of us preachers. He is always tired and worried when he gets home. If we had a bishop, I think I should report it." Rosalie said nothing. Both girls watched their father closely when he returned home late that night. He was tired indeed, and his eyes were darkly circled. He did not laugh so freely as usual at their merry chatter, and though he was tender with them as always, he seemed distrait and absent-minded, which was not like him. And Doris pondered over it anxiously. The next morning he came down-stairs wearing wide amber glasses, "which," he explained apologetically, "I am not wearing for style, I assure you, but the light seems rather too much for me. I think it causes the headaches." The girls had great fun with the amber glasses, shaking their heads sadly over his worldliness, for every one knew that amber glasses were fashionable. But after that, he always wore them except when he went into the pulpit. Two days later, when he came in to lunch, his face was as bright and smiling as it had been in the olden days when his laughter had been as spontaneous as Rosalie's or Zee's. He began talking, boyishly, before he reached his chair at the table, and the girls smiled happily at his cheerfulness. "I met a very clever man down-town to-day, and had quite a talk with him. He is an author--a psychologist and philosopher--he wrote all those books I have been so interested in lately. Very entertaining fellow, and so I invited him to dinner to-night." "Good night, nurse," gasped Doris. "You invited an author and a psychologist and a philosopher to dinner to-night?" "Only one, Doris," he explained patiently. "Father, there is something the matter with you. First you flash a bishop on us in the middle of the night, and now a psychologist-philosopher combination. Whatever in the world do you suppose he eats?" "Cheer up," said Rosalie. "He is a philosopher, remember, so he will be satisfied with what he gets. Food, nowadays, is the greatest test of human philosophy." "Oh, he is all right. I am sure he eats regular things. He has bought a place out here to do his work--close to his publishers in Chicago, and far enough out to be isolated when he is on a book. It will be a great treat for me to have him here." He looked at Doris reflectively. "Let's have a good dinner, regardless of the cost, and, Doris, I hope you--I mean, I hope all of you--will look your very sweetest and act your very dearest."