“No matter, you always look the same to me. I sha’n’t ever see ’em,” he went on, exultingly. Then he sighed again. “What a fine thing it would be if we could give our poor brains a vacation, if we could only stop thinking for a few weeks! But for some of us the waking up would be--well, it wouldn’t be cheerful. Helen, the other night I dreamed that we were back in the little cottage in Waverly, where we lived during the first year of our marriage. I could see the old-fashioned kitchen stove and the queer little furniture, and your father’s portrait over the mantel in the parlor. It all seemed so cheerful and restful and happy and innocent. There you were, in that pretty little house dress you used to wear--the one I liked, you know, with the little flowers worked in it. We were just two youngsters again, and it seemed good to be there with you all alone. Then I woke up, and a thousand worries began to buzz around my head like an army of mosquitoes, and I had that awful sinking of the heart that you feel after you come back from a pleasant dream and have to face reality again.” “You mustn’t think of those things, Douglas.” “Mustn’t think of them? Why, they’re the things that keep me happy. If I didn’t think about those days and expect to live them over again some time, I believe I’d lose courage.” “No, you wouldn’t, Douglas. You just imagine that.” He laughed, patting her arm. “My dear practical little wife, what a help you are! Do you know, I feel as if I had always been married. I was thinking of that the other day. I can’t think of myself any more as not married. I can’t think of myself as apart from you. Have you ever felt that way?” She looked into his face and smiled. “Ever since the very first day we became engaged,” she said, and he leaned forward and started to clasp her in his arms, when they heard a rustle of leaves behind them. Instinctively they drew away from each other. Then they heard Fanny Wallace exclaim: “Oh, here they are!” Fanny was out of breath, and young Fullerton was waving his handkerchief before his face. They had evidently been dancing desperately. “Oh, Auntie,” the girl panted, after a moment, “the great Mrs. Senator Aspinwall is going, and she’s looking around for you, to say good-night. What in the world are you doing here?” “Mr. Stone is moping in the drawing-room, sir,” said Guy, respectfully. “He looks as if he wanted to eat somebody’s head off.” Briggs smiled and passed his hand over his face. “I don’t believe Stone enjoys parties. He feels more at home at his club. I suppose we ought to go, Helen.” He rose wearily and stretched out his arms. “What a bore it is!” he said. “I suppose we’ll have to stop and speak to some of those people in the ballroom,” he whispered, noticing a group that had just come downstairs.