“I’m not! Oh, it’s this veil, I suppose.” She lifted the heavy polka-dotted screen and tucked it over her hat. “There, that’s more comfortable!” “Is it!” said the physician with an emphasis of sardonicism. “You surprise me by admitting that much. How long have you been wearing that instrument of torture?” “Oh, two hours. Perhaps three. But, Dr. Strong, it doesn’t hurt my eyes at all.” “Nor your head?” “I _have_ got a little headache,” she confessed. “To think that a supposedly intelligent woman who has reached the age of—of—” “Thirty-eight,” said she, laughing. “I’m not ashamed of it.” “—Thirty-eight, without having to wear glasses, should deliberately abuse her hard-working vision by distorting it! See here,” he interrupted himself, “it’s quite evident that I haven’t been living up to the terms of my employment. One of these evenings we’re going to have in this household a short but sharp lecture and symposium on eyes. I’ll give the lecture; and I suspect that this family will furnish the symposium—of horrible examples. Where’s Julia? As she’s the family Committee on School Conditions, I expect to get some material from her, too. Meantime, Mrs. Clyde, no kindergarten for Betty kin, if you please. Or, in any case, not that kindergarten.” No further ocular demonstrations were made by Dr. Strong for several days. Then, one evening, he came into the library where the whole family was sitting. Grandma Sharpless, in the old-fashioned rocker, next a stand from which an old-fashioned student-lamp dispensed its benign rays, was holding up, with some degree of effort, a rather heavy book to the line of her vision. Opposite her a soft easychair contained Robin, other-wise Bobs, involuted like a currant-worm after a dose of Paris green, and imaginatively treading, with the feet of enchantment, virgin expanses of forest in the wake of Mr. Stewart White. Julia, alias “Junkum,” his twin, was struggling against the demon of ill chance as embodied in a game of solitaire, far over in a dim corner. Geography enchained the mind of eight-year-old Charles, also his eyes, and apparently his nose, which was stuck far down into the mapped page. Near him his father, with chin doubled down over a stiff collar, was internally begging leave to differ with the editorial opinions of his favorite paper; while Mrs. Clyde, under the direct glare of a side-wall electric cluster, unshaded, was perusing a glazed-paper magazine, which threw upon her face a strong reflected light. Before the fire Bettykin was retailing to her most intelligent doll the allegory of the Magic Lens. Enter, upon this scene of domestic peace, the spirit of devastation in the person of the Health Master. “The horrible examples being now on exhibit,” he remarked from the doorway, “our symposium on eyes will begin.” “He says we’re a hor’ble example, Susan Nipper,” said Bettina confidentially, to her doll.