“For my part, I distrust girls or women who please only men,” said Mrs. Buzzell. “I’ve heard several men praise her looks.” “I’m inclined to think that her charm is not so much in her looks as in her good nature. She always smiles as if she were happy. The signs of happiness rest one so;”—and the doctor sighed. “Men,” said Mrs. Forest, who seldom generalized, “are unsatisfied unless women are always gay and smiling; but how can we be? Household cares so drag us down, and the care of children, especially two at a time, is too much for any one.” “Yet children used to be considered a blessing,” remarked the doctor, and added humorously, “but I can see how any woman might be blest to death by a too frequent repetition of this doubling extravagance of your sex.” Mrs. Forest was always annoyed at this suggestion, which the doctor often teazed his wife with, just to see the expression of impatient credulity on her face. She pretended not to notice it this time, but answered, a little spiritedly, “So they are a blessing, of course. I do not mean to deny that, but one may have many trials about them. I’m sure I have my share with Dan. He is almost sixteen, and yet I am quite sure he prefers to be ragged and dirty to looking like a gentleman’s son. It does annoy me so to think I have no influence over him in this matter.” “I think, mamma,” said Clara, raising her head from her father’s knee, “that Susie Dykes will have more influence in that matter than you have. He made a famous toilet to-day before going out. You should see his room. It looks like an old cockatoo cage after the bird has been bathing—only cockatoos can’t leave their towels and stockings scattered over the floor.” “Did he really change his stockings?” asked Mrs. Forest in amazement. “Then there’s something wrong. It must be the first time in his life he ever did such a thing of his own accord!” When Mrs. Buzzell rose to go the doctor rose also, and, as usual, gallantly accompanied her. The conversation on the way was a little tiresome to the doctor, but his heart was far too kind to permit him to show it, for he knew that he was much esteemed by this patient, and he pitied her lonely life. In answer to her complaints about her digestion he said, “And you ate honey and hot bread to-night. You should have eaten only a crust of bread, and chewed it well.” “Oh dear, no—that is, I am never troubled about what I eat at your house. I can digest anything perfectly well there; but everything disagrees with me at home. I have told you that often, doctor,” she added, as if pained that he should not remember.