Myra found time to read her woman's magazine from cover to cover, in the course of the month. Some things she read more than once--those frankly impossible stories in which the heroines were always beautiful and always loved. Myra had never known a heroine; the women of her acquaintance were neither beautiful nor adored; and were probably quite comfortably unaware of this lack. "I'm getting notional," Myra accused herself fearfully. The Family Doctor Book, a learned and ancient tome, confirmed these suspicions. It treated of this, and related matters, with a large assurance, like a trusty confidant. "Funny how long Mother stays in her room!" wondered Nell. "Mebbe she's fell asleep. Old people need all the sleep they can get. It's mostly so broken." "I'm agoing to see!" deposed Nell. Myra had never invaded that withdrawn privacy. But Nell, with her grenadier step, went swiftly and threw open the door. "What on earth! Mother!" Old Mrs. Bray's voice streamed quavering out, "Oh, Nellie! Don't scold me! Myry!--" Somehow Myra was there--past the affronted Nell in the door. In the instant silence they made a strange tableau. Old Mrs. Bray in her fine gray-and-lavender gown was seated before her little wash-hand-stand. The floral pitcher in its floral bowl had been set to one side on the floor. What covered the towel-protected top of the stand, was Nellie's looted treasure. There were the fragments of the pink cup and saucer; the leaf-green and brown majolica bits that had been the pickle-dish; the iridescent curved sides of George's wife's lemonade-glass; Aunt Em's shattered souvenir pitcher; Abbie Carter's cracker-jar with its smashed wheat-heads. Myra only looked bewilderedly; but on Nell's gaping face apprehension succeeded stupefaction and dissolved in its turn into a great brimming tenderness. "Scold you, Mother? Oh, Mother--what must you think me! (Oh, poor Mother--poor Mother--she's gone daft!)" "I always admired pretty broken bits of chiny," old Mrs. Bray confessed. "But the pitcher was a accident--reely it was, Nellie. I never went to let that fall. My arm breshed it. But the sasser and the pickle-dish and George's wife's lemonade-glass and Abbie Carter's cracker-jar--I done them apurpose. And I can't say I regret the pitcher, nuther." "Yes, Mother! Yes, yes! It's all right; I understand. (Myry, don't you leave her! I thought she was gettin' childish, but Oh--to think--I'll have John go for Doc Bradley right away. Let 'er amuse herself--but don't you leave her alone a minute! Poor Mother! Poor old Mother! Aplayin' with broken chiny dishes!)" "What's Nell awhisperin' to ye?" inquired old Mrs. Bray, sharply. "There's nothin' to whisper about as I know. Did ever you see anything purtier than this pink chiny piece, Myry? It broke so clean, and curved as a petal. And this here piece of George's wife's lemonade-glass--it's handsome as a brooch. See how the flower come out! Why, Myry, I've set here and fairly eat off these dishes!"