Regina's heart was stirred by new and conflicting emotions. She had, all her life, thought much of those who could be credited with working for eternity, whose toil was to benefit the whole world, to whom the personal touch had but small value. The picture of this great lady with her indisputable charms of beauty and disposition, came to her with an alluring sense of restfulness; here was one who wished to be far removed from the struggles of a contentious world, and somehow there came a second picture which linked itself with the first in a strange sweetness, the picture of an anxious, busy housewife, eager to honor the great guest, and through the summer night there seemed to float to Regina's disturbed senses that simple, soft and sweet reproach, that was only a little bit of a reproach, "she hath chosen the better part and it shall not be taken away." Yes, she was glad that she had laid the train for the resignation of her presidential office, she was glad that she was going to be all in all to her husband and children--well, husband and child. Perhaps before long Julia would take wings and fly away from the old nest as her sister had done before her. But Alfred would remain, and she determined in that soft summer evening hour that for Alfred's sake she would choose the better part, and her title to honor should be within rather than without doors. Having arrived at this point in her thoughts, she began idly turning over the leaves of the journal in her hand. It contained nothing of particular interest to Regina; there were accounts of entertainments given by people to whom she was unknown; there was a page devoted to fashionable weddings, including a portrait of her own girl and of Harry Marksby, and a glowing account of the wedding just gone by; and then she came to a column of answers to correspondents which appeared under the heading of "Feminine Wants." Regina's heart gave a sick thrill as she saw the two words, "Feminine Wants." The woes of womanhood seemed to crowd in upon her in an overwhelming wave of sorrow and desolation. Doubtless other women had suffered more than she had done. The first answer ran, "Humming Bird. I am so sorry for you, poor little thing, bravely struggling along in your little flat without a servant to do the rough work. Keep a brave heart, little wife, and always make a toilette for dinner. I know this may sound ridiculous, and I do not mean you to put on a low-necked dress, or commit any folly of that kind, but when you have set your dinner in train, go and dress yourself. Change your day dress for a silk blouse, do your hair smartly and neatly, have a smile ready for 'him' when he comes home, for he is just as tired and ready for refreshment as you are. You will enjoy your dinner twice as well if you have a little change in your gear, and you can easily put the dinner things on one side to be washed up in the morning. Be sure, after doing any dirty